


Empathy for Monsters

by FoxgloveFields



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, F/M, Friendship/Love, Love, M/M, Multi, Non-Explicit Sex, Polyamory, Romance, Sensuality, Tags Contain Spoilers, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:26:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 30,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29858055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxgloveFields/pseuds/FoxgloveFields
Summary: Regis has brought Dettlaff back to Toussaint over two years after the events of Blood and Wine in order to continue his rehabilitation, thinking the key is helping him develop a sense of empathy. Geralt thinks he's foolish, but Regis feels a chance meeting they had with a woman in the woods means more to Dettlaff than what it seemed.
Relationships: Dettlaff van der Eretein/Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, Dettlaff van der Eretein/Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy/Original Female Character(s), Dettlaff van der Eretein/Original Female Character(s), Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 47
Kudos: 30





	1. New Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> I’m working under the assumption that you beloved readers have at least a general knowledge of the games, specifically The Witcher 3: Blood and Wine. I don’t go crazy in-depth or anything and try to keep it to casual knowledge, don’t worry, but uh… spoilers for The Witcher 3 and Blood and Wine, I guess. I also added some general stuff from the books, like a little bit more about Regis, nothing crazy.
> 
> Content warnings: mentions of blood-drinking, manipulation/emotional abuse, hunger, homelessness, substance abuse, attempted force/non-con, murder, violence, and a few swears. Also probably some sensuality and romance in later chapters but hey, that’s why you clicked, right? ;)
> 
> Also, a disclaimer: I don’t own these characters or locations aside from my OC, but I try to keep my depictions as true as possible, so if you think I’ve screwed up, let me know, and I appreciate your patience. It’ll probably be a slow build.
> 
> Above all else, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> -FoxgloveFields

Fjola stepped out into the warm rays of the late summer sun, smelling the first hints of autumn on the breeze blowing across the golden field.

“Get a move on, girl!” snapped the old woman standing in the small cottage behind her. “We told you we don’t want your wares, now get!”

Fjola bowed her head apologetically as she walked down the narrow pathway dotted intermittently with worn stones, her large, faded cloth bag bouncing against her hip as she left as briskly as she could. The old woman’s cottage door clapped shut, though Fjola could hear her grumbling through the open window all the way until the path met the main road that led along the banks of the Sansretour. Sighing and empty-handed once again, she headed away from the river and back south, towards Francollarts. It was a long walk back, but she reasoned she could likely make it to the town and the safety of its torches before dark really fell. The days were getting shorter and the nights cooler, but she really had no other recourse but to try to make it in time. As if driving the point home, Mère-Lachaiselongue Cemetery seemed to wink at her in the distance, the eerie fog that always seemed to linger there causing goosebumps up her arms as she began to walk more briskly. While she was used to walking long distances by now, Fjola still dreaded some of the more tedious ones not because of the effort they took, but rather the fact they gave her plenty of time to think.

_Another penniless day,_ she mourned internally.  _Where do you think you can sleep tonight? Will the innkeeper allow you to rest behind the inn again, or will you be forced to spend the night with the pigs this time?_

Shaking these intrusive and unhelpful thoughts from her head, Fjola tried to concentrate on the beauty of the sun setting behind the mountains, the golden fields of grain ready for harvest, and the vineyards full of large grapes seemingly ready to burst. This was a poor image to concentrate on, however, as her stomach began to growl audibly and her mind once again drifted back to her current situation.  Homeless and penniless, Fjola had resorted to selling scraps and items she had scavenged here and there in order to pay for what little food she could. In summer being homeless was not so bad – there were still plenty of wild plants to forage for, and shelter wasn’t really a concern unless  the weather was stormy. Now that the equinox was mere days away, however, Fjola realized that food and shelter were going to become a much more pressing problem. 

_Even more so than right now,_ she thought as her stomach made angry noises again.  She sighed and kept walking, her grim thoughts seeming to chase her down the wheel-rutted road towards the small town miles ahead of her.

* * * * * * * * * *

"Dettlaff,” the older man chided, “You’re being ridiculous. These events happened two years ago, and by Geralt’s account, the young Duchesses both lived anyway.”

“You know how little comfort that brings me, Regis,” the younger-looking of the two men growled. “My intent was not to have Rhen…” He paused, pained. “...was not to have _Syanna_ live happily ever after.”

“And she’s not,” the older man replied softly. “Not as far as I’ve heard. Her younger sister Anna Henrietta keeps her under close watch at all times, all but a prisoner in the castle that was to be hers by birthright.” He clucked his tongue in amusement. “I can’t say I don’t take some malicious joy in her situation,” he admitted. “After everything she did…” He caught a glance of his companion’s face and decided to drop the subject.

He looked up to the setting sun, barely visible through the fog and thick branches covering the cemetery of Mère-Lachaiselongue.  His gray hair  and mutton-chop beard  moved gently in the breeze  and  his sharp, aquiline nose caught the scents of late summer foliage and the first flirtations of autumn weather, stronger than even the smell of dust and old bones that nearly overpowered the cemetery.  Regis smiled softly, enjoying the nice moment, before his companion Dettlaff once again made a noise of discontent.  He sighed.

“It’s extremely unlikely anyone will ever bother us here at this crypt,” Regis pushed, “My privacy was never molested or trod upon without my explicit consent or cajoling – this cemetery is far too old for anyone to still care about any ancestors still residing here, and the ancient tales of the shades of bandits still stalking amongst the tombstones keep even the heartiest of explorers quite far away. Not to mention the archespores make excellent watch-dogs, so to speak.”

Regis chuckled slightly to try to lift his companion’s mood, but Dettlaff’s face only soured more.

“I told you I wished to be far from men,” he grumbled. “This place has poor memories and the nearness of _her_ makes me feel ill.”

Regis’ face softened. “I understand,” he comforted, placing his hand gently on Dettlaff’s shoulder. “But remember the goals we have set, the plans put in motion. If we truly are to live amongst men once again, it’s imperative to have periodic exposure.”

“But why _here?”_

“Geralt is not far, and even after everything that transpired, I still consider him a very dear friend. Like you,” he smiled. Dettlaff did not return it, but raised an eyebrow. Regis continued. “Not to mention that despite your grim assessment of yourself, you’ve actually made much progress and come very far. I believe your final test will come in the form of forgiving the enemy that has hurt you the most.” Dettlaff’s eyebrow went a little higher and Regis hastily added, “...And well, I did leave a good amount of my things behind when I essentially fled with you. I’d like to have them back again.”

“I did not ask you to follow me!” Dettlaff suddenly shouted, jerking his shoulder free from Regis’ grasp. “You could have returned at any time! I did not ask for any of your companionship or proselytizing!”

“I know,” Regis said. “I know. But…” He scowled and pressed his lips together. “I could not let you go alone, my friend.”

Dettlaff’s shoulders fell as he turned away.  Regis sighed again and started forth into the crypt.

“I _do_ hope my hat is still here, I was rather fond of it…”


	2. To Francollarts

Fjola’s pace began to quicken as the sun sank ever lower, Francollarts still unfortunately far but at least finally visible. To her relief, a small group of farm laborers accompanied by a knight-errant escorting them for safety had joined her along the path, chatting merrily about what their evening would look like. The two female laborers laughed about flirting their way into free drinks while a particularly young male worker eyed them hungrily, ignorant of their conversation. Fjola smiled politely as she walked with them, not participating in their chatter but still grateful for the company. She heard the heavy steps of the horse’s footprints to her left as the knight brought himself to her side, smiling through the lifted visor of his ornate, feathered helmet.

“Where dost though go alone, my lady?” he pried. Fjola felt a little uncomfortable, but answered honestly.

“Francollarts,” she said, turning away and feigning deep interest in the rocks along the side of the road.

“Might I accompany you on your journey, my lady?”

“You already are,” she said softly, still not looking up. She heard the knight scoff slightly before he picked up his pace and began chatting with the female laborers ahead of her.

Fjola caught a glance at herself in a dirty puddle that had formed in a particularly deep rut in the road. Her brown hair was long, curly, and unkempt, her brown eyes had dark circles beneath them, the small, light freckles on her nose and cheeks seemed to have multiplied, and her clothes were frayed and stained from the daily journeys. Though she washed herself and clothes in the river each day, she knew her grooming probably wasn’t particularly up to Toussaintois standards.

_Perhaps that’s why they keep turning me away,_ she thought with a titter.  _Who wants wares from a beggar girl?_

She readjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder and the goods within clattered as if for emphasis.

*

Almost an hour later, Francollarts was finally within reach, and with good timing – the sun had finally dipped beneath the mountains and the air had gotten much cooler. Fjola shivered and made her way to the inn to ask for shelter  outside the rear of the building once more. Her stomach always wound itself in knots at the thought of asking, no matter how many times she had done so already – she  _hated_ charity. Not for others, of course, but she could never seem to accept it for herself.  The shame that came from holding one’s hand out for others to fill it burned like a hot knife in her belly, and she avoided it when she could, but hunger was a deeper blade and made help much easier to accept.  She felt another hunger pang and the worry that came with it – she had no money for food again, and the thought of stealing was, as of yet, still not an option she was willing to take.  She remembered that morning’s breakfast of a large bunch of sour grapes someone had discarded and her stomach growled again.

“Ahem,” the knight errant coughed, suddenly standing before her. She hadn’t noticed with her face to the ground and so deep in thought, but he was mere inches ahead of her, standing on the ground instead of sitting on his horse, his gauntlet-covered hand outstretched, palm up. Fjola shook her head and attempted to walk around him, not wanting any more company tonight, but she had apparently misunderstood as the knight became annoyed and barred her path again. She stopped and cocked her head slightly, still not understanding what the knight could have wanted. He scoffed.

“A tip, you fool,” all courtesy gone from his voice, “For my services escorting you to safety!”

“Your services?” Fjola was suddenly annoyed. “I thought knights-errant did these sorts of things for the sake of nobility and philanthropy, and that you were compensated by the Duchy?”

The knight growled, but did not rescind his hand. “We knights have to eat too, and I am not going all the way back to Beauclair for the pittance they allow us nowadays!”

Fjola felt guilty, but scowled. “I don’t even have money for my  _own_ food,” she admitted through gritted teeth, her cheeks reddening with shame. “I’m sorry.”

“Pah!” the knight spat at her feet and she jumped back. “You will see how much help you will receive when you next find yourself in trouble!”

With that, he hopped back onto his horse and rode into the town of Francollarts, the large plume on his helmet bouncing merrily in contrast to his furious mood. Fjola  kept on her path towards the inn, the knight’s warning  of  not  _if_ she were to find herself in trouble, but  _when,_ hanging over her like a threat.


	3. Settling In

Regis hummed contentedly as his fingers ran over his familiar books, bottles, and scrolls, wiping away two years’ worth of dust and cobwebs with gentle swipes. To his great fortune and surprise, very few things had been removed from the crypt, and the things that had been were of little use to him or were easily replaceable. 

“Hm,” he muttered, scouring over the items he had left behind, “I’ll need new quills and ink, as those have been taken, though it’s funny they did not touch the parchment. I’ll still have to replace that too though, of course,” he said sadly as he plucked a piece up and it crumbled in his grasp. “My dried herbs and plants are gone, though fortunately I brought my current stores with me, and I know where to find much more. It’s odd that whatever thieves saw fit to steal my ingredients, however, did not pilfer my solutions, as well. Perhaps they were frightened of the contents… though perhaps not as much as they ought to have been,” Regis said with distaste as he noticed a shriveled corpse not far from the door, an empty bottle of clear mandrake solution still under its hand. “A shame,” he said, picking up the bottle and examining it, “Had this thief allowed me to make proper use of this instead of drinking it while in its current state, he’d likely have enjoyed it much more.” He gave a sarcastic smirk and took in the crypt with his dark eyes again. “Still, not bad for two years of neglect. What say you, Dettlaff? Is it a proper enough home, for the time being?”

“It is,” he replied shortly, sitting on a low cement wall next to the warmth of the brazier Regis had lit upon entering. Regis placed the bottle back down next to the corpse and walked to Dettlaff, sitting next to him with a small groan.

“Mmph. Regenerated or not, even vampires such as us get tired, eh?” Regis said, clapping Dettlaff on the shoulder.

Dettlaff nodded slightly and examined the crypt. It would do, especially as he had no intentions of staying for very long. Just enough time to make Regis feel as though he had accomplished something, and then perhaps they – or just he – could move on again. Dettlaff felt he owed his friend that much.

* * * * * * * * * *

Fjola shivered against the stone wall of the Scarlet Cardinal Inn,  wrapping herself in her thin clothes as tightly as she could and trying in vain to shield herself from the chilly wind that had suddenly picked up.  She had tried to find a spot on the wall that was behind the hearth and roaring fire inside, but the fireplace had been reinforced and it barely warmed the  cement behind  the brick at all.  Resting had become impossible due to the cold, and her mind had begun to occupy itself once again with her concerns for the future. A million different scenarios began to run through her head, each worse than the last.

_Maybe I should go back to Belhaven? There wasn’t much there besides mining, but swinging a pickaxe is better than starving to death. I_ could _try to find work in Beauclair again but if they wouldn’t accept me last time, I doubt they would now that my clothes are even rattier._

Another breeze blew through her thin skirt and top and she turned her back to it, shivering.

_It’s almost a shame the borders into other territories are so difficult to cross. I don’t have the money for fabricated papers, either._

She considered her past paths and wondered if she had made the right choice in coming to Toussaint.

_Maybe taking up with the temple I was sent to wouldn’t have been so bad after all,_ she considered. _They housed and schooled me pretty well in return for my chores._ Thinking about her time there caused her a pang of guilt – they had taken her in and cared for her until womanhood, and she had left without so much as a parting note or thanks.

When she was a young child, Fjola’s parents had died serving as crew in an attack against some ships, an attack they and several other ships had initiated. Her parents were from Skellige, but were at port in Oxenfurt, trading fish which were at a premium there at the time when they received the call to arms. Leaving her in the care of a small school and promising a swift return, they boarded the ship with their captain and crew mates for the last time. Fjola remembered them with another pang – she had been so young at the time that her memories of them were barely more than blurs and fractured feelings and images. She remembered they had brought her with them to the continent to try to stoke an interest in seafaring and the duties of her clan, but she had still spent the whole time dreaming about what new things she would see, if they had many books, or if by chance she might meet an elf or a dwarf and have a conversation with them. She wondered if perhaps that’s why the caretaker, upon learning of her parents’ deaths, chose to send her to a temple instead of shipping her back to Skellige, where she would just be another orphan. 

Fjola had been too young for Oxenfurt at the time, not to mention poor, so the temple had been the next best option. She was grateful for being sent there, she supposed, but found it to be a very stale, unfulfilling experience over the years, and bolted before she could take any vows or steps towards further permanence there. They had taught her to read and write, heal, cook, clean, and, of course, pray. Fjola didn’t have much use for religion however, and being the obstinate explorer she was, departed for greener pastures one cool dawn several years ago. From there and over time, she made her way around the Mahakam mountains towards the east, then south through Aedirn, following the Yaruga to the Newi, to Riedbrune, then Belhaven, and eventually, down the Sansretour and into Toussaint. She had recalled depictions of the Duchy in the books she had read in the temple, and to her it had always seemed like a fairy tale kingdom, complete with tall-spired castles and rolling green hills full of aromatic flowers and weeds. She smiled now remembering her naivete, but took solace in the thought that, despite the fact she was starving and miserable, the place really was beautiful, like a painted storybook. She smiled thinking about how she used to believe in seeing things like talking animals, dragons, vampires, flying carpets and unicorns, chuckling lightly while she cowered from the cold and hunger.


	4. Watching the Fisherman

Dettlaff stared out at a small boat on the water of the Sansretour, a lantern dangling from its prow as a lone fisherman cast his line into the water peacefully. Though humans generally disgusted or confused him, Dettlaff could not help but appreciate some of their simpler tasks, such as that of the fisherman casting for food or the grape cultivators training and pruning their vines, inch by inch across their vineyards. Though it was dark already, this man had just kept about his task, almost as though he hadn’t noticed the sun had set and the air had cooled, or that his was the only boat left on the water. Dettlaff suddenly wondered to himself what it would be like to be the type of cruel monster humans saw his kind as; relentless, bloodthirsty hunters, remorseless and eager only for their next kill, completely devoid of emotion.

 _How I almost wish it were so,_ he lamented, _How easy it would be to exterminate these fools_ en masse _and finally be rid of their cruelty and fear. To be able to walk in peace, to not have to hide my face or worry about stretching my wings at night. To not be manipulated or hurt for their own selfish, petty desires, or…_

He stopped himself with a huff – he was doing it again.

“Having trouble sleeping?” came a voice from behind him. Regis.

Dettlaff merely returned his attention to the fisherman, who appeared to have started falling asleep.

“At times like this,” Regis said softly, “I’ve found myself doing this same identical task. It’s mesmerizing, isn’t it?”

Dettlaff grunted in assent. The pair of vampires stood for a moment in their cemetery, shrouded by the shadows of the trees and cloak of night as they watched the man slump down into his boat as he finally fell asleep. Regis chuckled.

“Were it so easy, hm?”

Dettlaff smiled and suddenly Regis felt hope for his old friend; he felt his heart swell with his dearest wish for him overcome his past trauma, to learn from his previous mistakes, to truly repent and finally move on with his (rather long) life. He had the odious feeling, however, that Dettlaff had merely been paying his words and ideals lip service in order to please him, and that as soon as he was out of his hair he would seclude himself once again from others. _Then again,_ Regis thought, _he always has been rather stiff._

He recalled with amusement the age at which they were young and irresponsible and vampires were more likely to group together, cutting their teeth so-to-speak and “letting loose” on the local populace. Dettlaff was more keen to stay behind and talk with the few others who abstained as well, or read by moonlight as he waited for his friends to return from their blood gorging. He had tried it, once, going with them and draining blood from villagers while they slept and taking out a group of bandits and arrogantly proclaiming themselves as heroes, but Dettlaff had found the experience unpleasant, his head swimming and mind wracked with guilt as he dropped the lifeless body of a young brigand from his arms. That was when their paths had begun to diverge – Regis had always envied him his effortless, self-assured demeanor, the fact that he simply did not care what others had thought of him at the time, but still abhorred his rigid determination to seemingly _not have fun._ He knew better now, of course, but Regis still felt guilt at having abandoned him at the time for the company of others who were seemingly enamored with him, but more often were just manipulating him for prey or their own amusement. He was grateful for his drastic change over the years, but found it still hard to forgive himself from time-to-time… especially now, as he gazed upon his black-and-silver haired friend and mourned the loss of his confidence and self-esteem.

“Do not do that, Regis,” he grumbled, closing his eyes. “Do not grieve for me. I hate the feeling of your pity.”

Regis’ face fell. “Forgive me, my friend. I cannot help but feel responsible for your current state. Were I a more accomplished mediator perhaps, or…”

Dettlaff cut across him with a gesture of his long-fingered hand.

“Enough,” he said. “You constantly preach to me the importance of letting the past go, I find it irritating you do not follow the same advice yourself.”

“Hmm,” Regis nodded, smirking slightly. “I suppose you’re right. But it is good to know you recall my lessons with such passion.”

Dettlaff closed his eyes disdainfully, shaking his head and reentering the crypt as Regis stood for a moment longer outside, enjoying the crisp air and wondering where their current path would take them.


	5. Told You So

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scary incident at the end.

Fjola awoke with a groan, realizing it was still dark out and that the candles in the villagers’ homes had all been extinguished. A few lanterns still glowed along the roadside, but for the most part, everything was cold and dark. Rousing herself, she saw that the sky remained a deep, dark blue in the east and the stars were still scattered across it – dawn would not be for another couple of hours yet. She knew she wouldn’t get much more sleep anyway and grabbed a lantern that had been hanging from one of the poles lining the way through town, figuring that on her return, she would quietly place it somewhere where it could easily be discovered and hung once again. She used it to illuminate her way towards a small, hidden pond in the Caroberta woods to wash up like she normally did, absentmindedly plucking some perfumed herbs and flowers along the way to use in her bath. Although she knew dawn was approaching, it was still quite dark out, and she figured she would have decent privacy for some time. It wasn’t until she was on her way back that she realized how foolish she had been.

* * * * * * * * * *

Regis stretched, cat-like and full of energy as he cajoled his companion to come with him to grab some much-needed supplies. Dettlaff trudged along begrudgingly, still feeling uncomfortable at the thought of being in public, much less in a place where he might be recognized. Neither of them necessarily fit in, not to mention Regis had a way about him that was almost flirtatious, attracting others to him like moths to a flame. Thinking of this, Dettlaff fidgeted with the jeweled moth pin attached to his black leather frock coat, somberly recalling Regis’ words as he had gifted it to him. _“You’ll always be attracted to the light,”_ he had said, and Dettlaff had always wondered why Regis even bothered to try.

_It’s not as though_ _I_ _genuinely enjoy human company,_ _so_ _why force it?_ he wondered. _Why not simply let me go?_ But he supposed with such long life spans, perhaps Regis simply wanted a project, or missed companionship of the same species. While they were usually solitary creatures, it’s not as though they never got lonely. Dettlaff recalled several bruxae and alps who had kept him company years ago and wondered how they were faring now. He wondered if they would be excited to see him, or neutral unless called upon. His ability to summon lesser vampires to his side was both a blessing and a burden; it was a useful power to have and at times did help chase the loneliness away, but because it was “forced” he often wondered about their true feelings towards him. Because of this, he had been fond of his occasional companions, but never truly close. He supposed that’s why it came so easy with Regis, even though they didn’t always see eye-to-eye – he couldn’t be put under Dettlaff’s spell, and so he knew his desire to be in his company was genuine. He still could never figure out _why,_ however, and it could make him prickly at times.

“It’s still dark yet,” Regis commented, “But by the time we arrive, we’ll likely have first pick of whatever the stores are carrying. Ah, that reminds me, please alert me if you see any good satchels, I’ll need a rather large one for carrying herbs and such to replenish my stock. Also, keep an eye open for some decent parchment, seeing as mine has become just another pile of dust in the crypt. Speaking of which, I suppose we’ll need a broom as well…”

Dettlaff nodded, listening to Regis’ chattering patiently while they walked towards Francollarts in the dark.

* * * * * * * * * *

Fjola finished bathing, shivering in her underclothes as she exited the freezing pond, tossing her skirt and top back on before she could fully dry and grabbing her bag of odds and ends before she started to make her way back towards the path. She heard the snap of a tree branch and froze, blowing out the last bit of flame in her lantern and squatting down to listen. _Stupid,_ she thought, _I should have known better than to come out here in the dark. Damn wolves_ _could have snuck up on me._

She waited patiently for a couple minutes before deciding that if she were about to be devoured, it likely would have happened by now, and picked herself back up and made towards the road again, this time hurrying as best as she could despite the lack of the lantern’s glow to light her way. She had a funny, creeping feeling and a newfound desperation to just make it out of the thick of the woods, then she’d be safe, she reasoned. Leaping over a fallen tree branch, she landed softly back onto the heavily worn road she had traveled just the day before, lifting her arms in victory as she did so.

_I made it!_ she thought, before an arm grabbed her roughly about the waist from behind. She tried to scream but a coarse, reeking hand covered her mouth and she struggled, kicking her legs into the air and trying in vain to scream. Just then, a familiar horse came up the path and into view, the knight-errant she had met on the road yesterday lifting a torch and brandishing his blade. Her attacker stopped, but kept his grip on her. Fjola felt smug for a moment, her safety within reach, but suddenly saw the knight-errant’s face twist in recognition and he turned his horse back up with path and out of sight. Chuckling, her attacker began dragging her back into the woods, and the last thing she heard before disappearing into the trees was the knight calling, “I told you so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware of next chapter if you are sensitive or have triggers, please.


	6. A Fine Mess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content/Trigger Warnings: Violence, description of injury, attempted rape

Regis stopped in his tracks for a moment, cocking his head and holding out an arm to stop his companion. Dettlaff began listening, too, controlling his breaths and focusing his excellent hearing on the dark woods surrounding them. Regis suddenly took off into the trees, Dettlaff following without hesitation as they skillfully made their way through the darkness, being able to see in it quite well. They ran for perhaps only a minute or so before Regis halted abruptly, squatting down and glancing towards a small bonfire in the middle of a clearing. A large group of heavily-armored bandits was milling about, cursing, drinking, and lightly brawling as the commotion the pair of vampires had heard made itself apparent. A greasy, disheveled-looking man in dark leather armor was dragging a kicking, squirming young woman with him, covering her mouth with his calloused paw and smiling nastily.

“Caught this one all squeaky clean from the pond a mile about that way,” he motioned with his head, “Seems a nice treat before breakfast, boys, a _reeaaal nice treat,_ what do you think?”

The woman squirmed and screamed as best as she could in his grasp, but could not seem to extricate herself. Regis scowled deeply and bared his sharp teeth, but this time it was Dettlaff held an arm out in front of him. Regis looked over in confusion but Dettlaff merely shook his head, whispering very lowly, “Do you really want to expose us already?”

“You know what’s about to happen otherwise,” Regis warned, his voice heavy.

The man had released the woman from his grasp, but she was clutching an iron lantern and swung it directly at his face, lacerating it in a spout of blood. Regis and Dettlaff both heard the sharp snap of bone and realized she had broken the bandit’s nose. He screamed and howled in pain, clutching his face as another pair of brigands grabbed the woman and pinned her to the ground. Dettlaff felt his stomach turn and blood boil, but turned towards Regis to argue his point.

“Humans make their own misery,” he growled, “this one is no exception.”

Regis looked furious. “Have I taught you nothing?” he hissed.

“We can’t save the world, nor should we!” he snapped back, but couldn’t help the guilt welling in his stomach as he glanced back over and saw the woman’s kidnapper standing over her, gushing blood from his wound and spitting it on the ground.

“You’ll pay for that, bitch,” he snarled, punching her hard in the face and kicking her in the ribs. She gasped from the pain, doubled over on her side and reeling, multiple bandits now holding her to the ground and laughing despicably.

Dettlaff felt another pang as the woman cried out, still desperately trying to kick at her attackers despite the pain and inability to free herself. Regis turned his head in disgust, removing his leather jerkin and other clothes quickly in preparation to transform into something more formidable. Dettlaff looked at him in alarm before it dawned on him.

“Your _bat_ form?” he asked with incredulity.

“Yes,” Regis sneered, unable to look his cold companion in the face out of anger, “Then I won’t be recognized, should there be a survivor. Aside from the young lady, of course.”

Dettlaff saw the bloody brigand aim another kick at the woman, the heel of his sharp boot cutting her arm as he landed another blow. He pressed his dirty finger into the wound as she screamed and one of the bandits held her mouth shut again, the lacerated man finally standing and freeing himself in preparation for his next intended act.

“Don’t worry,” Dettlaff growled, transforming, “There won’t be.”

Before Regis could react, Dettlaff had shed his coat and launched himself into the group of bandits, fangs bared and claws flying, his hair whirling as he fought like an animal, his claws gouging deeply into the faces and chests of the repulsive men. The brigands holding the woman down released her, grabbing their axes and swinging down as Dettlaff’s back was turned, one of them whizzing close by his head, the other sinking into his right shoulder blade. He howled in pain and landed on his knees, but Regis knew it was over before the man had even managed to remove his axe from his enemy’s back. Immediately Dettlaff began to grow and change, shape-shifting into his massive, more intimidating form, his incredible wings and extra appendages forcing the axe from the flesh of his back with a sickening pop as his eyes disappeared and his gaping maw filled with long, savage fangs. Roaring with fury, he began slaughtering the rest of the men like the animals they were, their blood staining every surrounding surface, some of it hissing as it hit the fire still glowing in the pit in the center of the massacre. Finally, when the last of the pigs was butchered, Dettlaff breathed a heavy sigh and turned back towards the woman, checking to see if she was dead or merely unconscious.

Dettlaff was wrong on both counts; the woman was still simply frozen to the ground in fear and wonderment, her eyes almost swollen shut from the blows of the bandit who had beaten her. She had watched in awe as the winged miracle before her devastated her attackers in mere seconds, and watched now with a strange, cool calmness as the impossibly huge being approached her in giant steps. He knelt down and though she could not see him very well, she could feel his hot breath on her face, oddly welcome in the cool air. He brought a clawed hand to her, lifting a finger and placing it against her wrist to check her pulse. She gently brought her own fingers up to stroke his hand and he flinched, whipping his eyeless face towards hers. She could feel his own heart racing through the finger he still had placed upon her wrist.

“Thank you,” she whispered before closing her eyes, sliding her fingers against his hand once more before losing consciousness completely.

*

"A fine mess,” Regis said, though oddly cheerfully. “Not your problem indeed. Though thank you for saving me the trouble,” he chuckled.  
“That’s not _exactly_ what I said,” Dettlaff growled, hesitating. “Besides, you were taking too long.”

He was returning slowly to his more human form, his tattered clothes still littered across the ground from when his larger shape had burst forth. He sighed in annoyance but Regis merely handed him his black leather frock coat, which was the sole piece of clothing Dettlaff had shed, just in case.

“Of all the things to remove,” Regis laughed.  
“Hmm,” Dettlaff grumbled, “I’m rather fond of this coat.”

There was a pause and a moment of silence while Dettlaff covered himself as best as he could with his jacket and Regis scoured the site for anything useful. Well, at least anything useful that wasn’t _covered in blood._

“What made you change your mind?” he asked seemingly idly as Dettlaff secured the last of his buckles. He wasn’t sure how to answer.   
“Her screaming,” he finally replied, softly, though Regis could sense the anger in his voice, and something else that he wasn’t saying. He nodded in understanding nonetheless, not wanting to press Dettlaff any further, approaching the woman and gently feeling for her pulse himself.

“I already checked,” he snapped. “She’s fine. Let us go.”

Regis cocked an eyebrow, though kept his gaze on the woman before him.

“What did she say to you?” he asked.   
“I’m sure you heard,” Dettlaff said impatiently.   
“I was rearranging my clothing,” Regis said defensively. Dettlaff emitted a low grumble.   
“Hmm. She… thanked me,” he said haltingly, unsure of how to feel. Had she not been terrified of him, or was she in shock? Could she not see him from beneath her swelling eyes? Surely she must have been able to sense _some_ of his monstrosity.

Regis stood up and faced his friend. “Would you kindly go back to Mère-Lachaiselongue and prepare it, while I make my way there in a moment?”

Dettlaff had a moment of confusion before realizing what Regis must have intended. He shook his head angrily but Regis held up his hand with insistence and a cold finality even Dettlaff did not want to challenge.

“And please,” Regis continued, a sly smile spreading across his face, “Don’t forget to clothe yourself more fully.”

Dettlaff scowled and set off towards the cemetery, defeated.


	7. Soothing

Fjola had started to come to, her head and body absolutely _pounding,_ but she was grateful to even be waking up at all. She felt a cold, wet cloth against her face and jerked backwards, throwing open her eyes to see an older gentleman glancing at her kindly, a dripping rag in hand.

“Shh,” he soothed, bringing the cloth up to her again.

She tried to sit up quickly and squirm away, but the pain in her ribs knocked the wind out of her and she gasped, falling back down onto the bed she had been placed upon.

“It’s alright,” the man comforted softly, “I promise, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Fjola glanced into his deep, black eyes and, despite all common sense, decided to trust him, for now. She didn’t have the energy to fight regardless, and, closing her eyes, resigned herself to his care. She lay there peacefully for a few minutes as he held the damp cloth against her eyes, taking in her surroundings as best as she could with her other senses. The first thing she noticed was the smell – beyond the medicinal odor of whatever was in the water the man was using against her face was something strongly herbal. _Pleasant,_ even. A strong whiff of cinnamon was immediately apparent, along with sage and something that reminded her of licorice, mixed with a few other scents she was unable to place, despite her time training at the temple. It had been so long ago that the smells and knowledge seemed very distant to her now. The man moved his arms to wring the cloth out and re-saturate it, and the herbal smell became stronger for a moment until the cloth was put back on her face. The scent put her at ease for some reason and she relaxed the tension in her shoulders she hadn’t known she’d been carrying.

Listening to her surroundings wasn’t as helpful, however – beyond her caretaker’s quiet breathing and the sound of a small fire, there was a very deep silence, so complete it was almost oppressive. Fjola strained to hear more but her attempt was interrupted by the man’s voice.

“I apologize for bringing you here so suddenly,” he said softly. He sounded genuinely remorseful and Fjola was confused. The events that had transpired before she had lost consciousness were not his fault at all – were they? Her heartbeat suddenly quickened.

“Did you… how…” she wasn’t sure how to start and bit her lip gently as she paused. The man made a soft noise, almost like a sigh.

“Hmm. I…” he paused too for a moment. “You were unconscious at a bandit camp. We – that is, my friend Dettlaff and I – brought you to our… _abode…_ to administer some medicine to you. We wanted to make sure you weren’t too badly injured. Which, I’m afraid to say, it seems as though you are. Oh nothing permanent,” he added quickly, sensing her fear, “But you’ll need some time to recover, at least. Perhaps a couple of weeks.”

_A couple of weeks?_ she thought with alarm. “ I’m sorry,” she said, trying to right herself despite the pain in her head and body, throwing off the mask and trying to regain her senses, “I can’t stay here that long.”

The man put a hand gently on her shoulder to try to relax her but she flinched away from his grasp, a dreadful knot forming in the pit of her stomach as she took in the obvious scene of an old crypt before her. She froze and the gentleman caught her gaze, staring into her eyes intensely. Fjola strangely found herself unable to look away, her mind and body suddenly wanting to do nothing more than sleep.

“I apologize for this,” the man whispered, “But you need your rest.”

Fjola’s last image before succumbing was of the man’s deep, comforting black eyes, and a tall, broad shadow lurking in darkness behind him.

* * * * * * * * * *

"How soon can she leave?” Dettlaff asked.

Regis turned back from his now-unconscious patient to scowl at his friend, his thick eyebrows furrowing down in that judgmental glare he always made when someone said something that he took as foolish or disrespectful.

“Don’t mistake me,” Dettlaff said, holding a hand up, and Regis’ face relaxed a little. “I merely mean… perhaps there are people looking for her. Perhaps they could… follow us here.”

Regis considered this for a moment, but ultimately shook his head.

“I left no traces of us,” he said, “Only bodies, which will doubtless be chalked up to some wild fiend. I even went so far as to burn the scraps of your clothing. However, I see your point. It was never my plan to abduct the poor girl, just tend to her wounds and let her be on her way.”

“Maybe you should go back to Francollarts and ask?” Dettlaff suggested.

“No,” Regis said, “No, you were right the first time, she needs to go back. We’ll transport her tonight.” He looked back down at her in… was it warmth? Dettlaff couldn’t place it, but decided not to say anything. Regis removed the cloth from her face and wrung it out, getting up to dump the old water outside. “Who knows,” he said with a small laugh, “Perhaps she will consider all of this just a very strange dream.”

Dettlaff smirked and gazed outside at the noonday sun, tinged blue through the mist of the cemetery, eagerly anticipating having the crypt to themselves again.

*

“I still need to find a new satchel,” Fjola could hear the older man say, “I don’t mean to sound callous but today was irritatingly unfruitful.”

“You still have your usual one,” another voice said, deep and grumbling.

“Of course, of course,” the older man said dismissively, “But I’d need quite a large one to collect some of the items I need in more plentiful amounts. My leather one here is only capable of so much.”

Fjola opened her eyes just a crack to examine her surroundings once more, noticing with hope that her eyes no longer felt so swollen, though the rest of her still felt as though she had tumbled down Mt. Gorgon head first. She was definitely in a crypt, that much was clear; the cement caskets lining the alcoves couldn’t make it any plainer. However, she noticed copper pipes and wooden shelves stocked with dozens of books, scrolls, and potions among other things on the side of the crypt in which she was resting, all of it very much out-of-place in this dreary underground space. It clashed oddly and she gazed away towards a set of stone steps on the far end of the room, the daylight creeping in appearing as though it was almost gray, or filtered.

“Regis,” said the grumbling man, “I think she’s awoken.”

The older gentleman approached her again, and again, looked deeply into her eyes, lulling her to sleep almost instantaneously.

“Perhaps we should move her now,” he suggested. Dettlaff agreed, and they were soon on their way back toward Francollarts, taking turns carrying the unconscious woman to their destination.


	8. Discomfort

Fjola dreamed of something dark and massive carrying her through valleys and woods, up over mountains and castles, the wind whipping her hair and a set of glistening fangs only inches above her. She reached up to touch the monster’s face and suddenly jolted awake, cold air blowing across her bare legs, her skirt bunched up around her thighs. She looked around in alarm, expecting to find herself in the strange crypt again, but instead slowly began to realize she was resting in one of the rooms at the Scarlet Cardinal. Groaning, she lay back against the bed and fixed her skirt, looking with annoyance at the open window, too pained and lazy to make the effort to cross the room to close it. The wind blew again and suddenly she smelled something delicious very close to her. Looking up more alertly now, she saw a large bowl of hot stew with a thick, small loaf of sourdough and a couple of beautiful apples sitting on a small table not far from her bedside.

Suddenly energized and ignoring her pain, she sat up and glanced about the room to see if it was intended for somebody else. It was only her in that small room, though, and despite her roaring stomach and watering mouth, she waited for a couple of minutes to see if anyone would return for it. No one did, however, and soon she could no longer stand it, launching herself at the first bit of hot food she’d had in weeks. She was practically moaning as she finally filled her stomach, but as her frenzy died down, realization settled in and she forced herself to save most of the bread and both apples, using her finger to wipe the gravy from the sides of the bowl after she had finished off the stew.

Finally satiated and with a full belly, Fjola leaned back to think about her terrifying morning and unbelievably fortunate afternoon. Her mind kept drifting back to _why?_ and the possibility that perhaps, just maybe, she had dreamed it all after being attacked.

_But then who saved me?_ She recalled with curiosity and a little bit of fear the hulking, winged creature that had taken out the bandits and thought,  _Or rather,_ what _saved me? What was that thing? And why? Why did it bother?_

She considered then the older gentleman who had given her medicine for her face and cared for her in the crypt, as well as the broad shadow behind him and  the  second masculine voice. Were they all related somehow? What had happened to the winged creature? Had it run or flown off when the other two men approached? And, once again, why had it bothered to help her? Fjola could not recall much kindness in the world, especially as of late, and  _especially_ not without strings attached, and the thought of being saved by a  _monster_ no less gave her very little comfort at all.

* * * * * * * * * *

Dettlaff and Regis had laid down next to each other on the sole bed in the crypt, which was unfortunately rather small. Regis’ slighter body curled up without much difficulty, but Dettlaff was having trouble with his much broader frame. He turned on his side and stared out at the crypt, sleepless as usual, knowing that it wasn’t really the bed’s fault. Something was tickling his ear and he swept a hand beneath his head, expecting it was just one of his thick black curls gone errant, but whatever it was was much longer. He pulled his hand away and noticed a long, curling brown hair attached to it, obviously left behind by their temporary “house” guest that day. Annoyed, he dropped it to the ground and attempted to sleep once more.

Drifting, he thought about the young woman, her gentle touch on his monstrous hand and sincere thank you as she  had  looked at him.  He wondered again why she hadn’t shrunk from him,  and tried to figure out exactly what had motivated him to help her in the first place.

_Pity, I suppose,_ he considered, but it didn’t quite feel right.  _Anger, maybe,_ he also thought. It made the most sense – although he didn’t kill for joy or for sport, slaughtering cruel, monstrous excuses for men caused him no moral discomfort. In fact, it gave him a small sense of satisfaction, though he was loathe to admit it. He was not the type to frequently help humans, no matter their circumstances, but certainly didn’t deny them basic courtesies or just avoidance altogether.  _Yes,_ he thought,  _that must be it. I only helped her because I despised_ them _so deeply. I was chasing the satisfaction of ridding the world of evil men, justifying it through her own need at the time._

He nodded to himself as though he had reached a great conclusion and rolled once more on the bed to find himself face-to-face with Regis, who had been watching him silently and was now giving him a curious glance. Dettlaff merely closed his eyes again and pretended to fall asleep. He knew Regis could tell he was faking, but also knew that he would understand that  that  meant he did not want to talk, and  that Regis  would leave him alone. He was right,  though he found no solace in it.


	9. An Unexpected Visit

While grateful for the bed and food her wonderful benefactor had gifted her, it was only for the evening and, come morning, she was rushed out of the inn hurriedly, her hair still dripping from her bath. Before she was unceremoniously booted out the door, however, Fjola stopped the innkeeper and asked about who had been so generous to her.

“A couple of men,” she said, “Don’t know who, they didn’t leave names, just insisted on paying for the bill and left.”  
“Do you remember what they looked like?”  
“One of ‘em was a bit older, maybe the other one’s dad? Though he was going gray too. Hm.”

She appeared to think for a moment, but Fjola was patient – she had a feeling that it was, indeed, the man who had cared for her yesterday, as well as his shadowy companion.

“The gray one was dressed like a tax collector,” she smirked, “But talked like there was no tomorrow. The other one was the quiet type, I suppose. Tall and dark-haired, all-in-all kind of handsome, but his eyes made me feel like someone walked over my grave. I didn’t ask their names or the like, they paid, I provided.”

Fjola nodded and thanked her, finally exiting the inn to start on her way. To where, she wasn’t quite sure. She just knew that she had to leave Francollarts behind, though.

“Ey,” the innkeeper called after her, “You going to sleep outside again here tonight? Because I’m going to start charging you, you know.”

“No need,” Fjola said, refusing to elaborate further as she made her way down the familiar road back towards the Sansretour, pausing to dump all of the scrap items she was never going to sell anyway upon a rubbish heap near the edge of town. She was planning on just one more stop.

* * * * * * * * * *

“It’s a shame most of the shops were closed last night by the time we got to Francollarts,” Regis sighed, staring at the mid-morning light coming from under the door, “I’d have liked to have saved myself the long walk.” He smiled and, with an air of nostalgia, stated, “It’s at times like these where I miss Drakuul. I do wonder whatever happened to that mule.”

Dettlaff remained as stoic as ever, merely watching the road ahead and letting Regis do enough talking for the both of them. Which he continued with, undeterred by Dettlaff’s stubborn silence.

“I’m still hoping to get a new satchel, as I mentioned,” he seemed to be talking to himself, “But at least we were able to get the parchment and a broom. Though remind me to find a new journal as well, should you see one; I used to keep one in the crypt but alas, I haven’t seen it since Geralt’s last visit those couple of years ago, and my new one is getting full. I suspect he was interested in its contents – he never much was one for asking permission before nosing about or even pilfering small objects, the devil. I’ve never known such a noble man with such a propensity for petty theft.” He gave a small laugh and shook his head thinking about his friend. Dettlaff closed his eyes and rolled them beneath his lids.

“Perhaps I should get him a housewarming gift – aside from the mutagenerator I designed for him, that is – despite the fact that I am over two years late in doing so. Hm, which reminds me, I do recall the vineyard he was gifted for his involvement in…” He coughed. _“That_ matter… well, I remember him mentioning that the previous owner had planted new vines some time prior to Geralt’s acquisition of the estate. Seeing as they take about three years to bear fruit, perhaps less if one has the good fortune to know a particularly skilled and willing sorceress to help, by my estimation, this will be the first year his vines shall have produced a crop.” He chuckled again. “It does amuse me, admittedly, thinking of my gruff Witcher friend relaxing in the shade, wine in hand and lounging in repose after a day of meticulously training vines and pruning leaves.” Regis breathed in the sweet, mid-morning air. “Although, I’d forgotten about leaving my skeleton and hat in his cellar at Corvo Bianco, as well – I’d feel awful asking for any of it back now, but perhaps he’d be willing to accept my bony old friend as a gift, and allow me at least my cap back. I doubt he’d find it fashionable, in any case, so he might be persuaded to part with it…”

Dettlaff suddenly yanked Regis back into the trees, blending in with the shadows and staring warily at the road they had just been walking on. They both watched quietly, startling when they saw the young woman they had rescued yesterday coming slowly down the path.

“I’m astonished she’s able to walk about this far,” Regis whispered with surprise.  
“I’m not,” Dettlaff muttered back nonchalantly, “You’re an expert in healing and medicine.”

Regis knew he had only mentioned it as a casual comment, but he couldn’t help but feel flattered. He was about to tell him so but noticed that his friend had crouched back even further into the shadows, looking a great deal like a panther stalking its prey, much to Regis’ amusement. He followed suit, however, the two of them watching the woman walk to the edge of the woods, freeze, and with great trepidation, start walking towards their crypt.

“I thought you said she was unconscious when we left,” Dettlaff scolded.  
“She was,” Regis replied. “Not only did I put her to sleep myself – a talent I’m quite good at, I’d like to mention – but I could feel her heartbeat and hear the rhythm of her breathing. She was most definitely asleep.”  
“Then how could she have followed us here?”  
“Well, she _did_ see that she had been on the inside of a crypt yesterday. This being the nearest one to Francollarts, it’s likely that she put two and two together. Or is just a phenomenal guesser.”  
“What do you suppose she wants?”  
“Maybe to thank us for the board for the night.”  
“Hm, and the meal,” Dettlaff said quietly.  
“The meal?” Regis asked. He had only paid for the room.

Dettlaff did not meet his eyes, but said, “I assumed you had forgotten to add it.”

Regis gave him a sly look for a moment before returning his attention to the young lady, who had just walked past her first tombstone and crossed her arms in front of her chest defensively. They were quite well hidden from human senses, but still used extra caution as they quietly turned into smoke and got closer, re-materializing in the treetops behind her, concealing themselves once more. She looked about her as she got to the crypt, standing on her tiptoes to glance at her surroundings before approaching the door and knocking on it gently. Obviously, no one was inside to answer, but Regis saw that she waited another minute before knocking again, this time more loudly. She tried the door but to no avail, backing up and gasping as she wrapped one of her arms around her ribs in pain. She leaned against the stone archway for a moment to catch her breath, looking around once more before resignation set in. She took her bag off from around her shoulder and removed some bread and two apples, folding the bag gently and placing it upon a broken pillar near to the door to the crypt. She finally went to leave, but suddenly stopped herself with a doubtful look on her face. With an expression Regis could only describe as a mix of satisfaction and remorse, she placed the two fruits on top of the bag, hopefully out of reach of scavenging animals, and left the cemetery as quickly as she could.

The pair of vampires waited for a few minutes to make sure she was truly gone before descending from the trees and examining what she had left. Regis smiled as he wrapped the bag around his shoulder, but noticed Dettlaff scowling deeply at the apples as though they somehow offended him.

“Rather charming of her, don’t you think?” he asked cautiously.

Dettlaff merely grunted and handed the apples to Regis before evaporating into black and red mist and filtering in to the crypt through the crack beneath the door.

“Where are you going?” Regis asked incredulously.  
“Do your own shopping,” Dettlaff responded from the other side. “I’m… tired.”

Regis shrugged it off and once again started the long walk to town.


	10. Dettlaff's Pacing

Dettlaff was pacing back and forth in the crypt, immersed in his own thoughts, tense and irritable despite the comfort of solitude.

_Why would she bother?_ he thought. _We did not ask for repayment. We didn’t expect it. And those apples were for her – was she rejecting them out of repulsion? Is she ungrateful?_ He considered a moment that perhaps she just wanted to share, or show gratitude, but shook his head, refusing to believe it. He had been able to accept it once upon a time, charity or kindness from humans, but had long ago found that it was often born out of manipulative intent or selfish motives. _Why would any human care to show kindness to a monster?_ It suddenly occurred to him however that she hadn’t known it was he who had rescued her – there was no way she could have seen him transform, and he and Regis did not discuss it in her presence. At least… not when she was _conscious._ He stopped pacing for a moment and stared at the ground in thought. _Had she heard us somehow? Does she realize what I am? But then why return and risk encountering me again? And even if she doesn’t know, why return at all? Gratitude? She could show us that much better by leaving us in peace._

He was suddenly nervous that she might return to see them again, and keep doing so until she was satisfied, but a thought occurred to him.

_Perhaps if I take my form and terrify her, she will not be so keen on coming back…_ He scowled. _Or she’ll alert some guards or a knight-errant._ He growled and resumed pacing. _So much for the so-called peace Regis offered upon coming here. We didn’t even have one uneventful evening before…_ He stopped his train of thought, realizing it was he who had acted on the woman’s behalf in the first place. Sure, Regis would have anyway, but that made little difference to Dettlaff as it dawned on him that this whole mess was his own doing. _I should have left her to her fate, and forced Regis along with me. It is not up to us to decide the destinies of mortals._ Even as he thought this however, he knew it was wrong. He didn’t know _how_ he knew, he just did, despite it conflicting with his reticence to ever involve himself. Interfering in human affairs was something vampires rarely did, if ever, and the few times Dettlaff had himself did not usually turn out in his favor. He remembered with great pain the last time he had tried to scare a pursuing human female off with one of his monstrous forms, and how spectacularly that had failed in the long run.

_Syanna,_ his mind whispered, and the thought of her brought him to a fury so thick he immediately transformed into his more bestial self, swinging his long claws in rage and sending several books and bottles flying across the crypt. One of them smashed and Dettlaff instantly felt guilty, sitting down on a rickety chair and burying his face in his claws.

_I just want to be left alone._


	11. Beauclair Port

Fjola staggered her way along the road that ran nearly parallel to the Sansretour, heading towards the Beauclair Port and hopefully, a new life. Even though she was still in poor physical shape, something about having had a hot meal the night before had put a fire in her belly. _Well,_ she reasoned, _a hot meal and nearly escaping rape, torture, and death, I’m sure._

She thought again about the creature that had rescued her, and why it seemed it had done so _intentionally,_ but decided to put it out of her mind. She figured she had either been dreaming or hallucinating, and even if she hadn’t been, whatever had saved her life had decided to spare it, and if she saw it again, she would make a greater effort to extend her thanks. In the meantime, she had bigger fish to fry.

*

It was after noon by the time she had reached the port, for which she was grateful, as it meant the streets were bustling and there were plenty of sellers, merchants, and other potential employers about. For hours she walked about the port and eventually ventured into the San Sebastian district, where it seemed there were endless labor and work shops, but to no avail. With no work records, character references, residence, friends or even decent clothes, she was practically laughed out of every store, shop, and stall. Dejected and with another cool evening approaching, Fjola decided to curl up behind a random, desolate building and call it a night.

Despite the air being as cool as the night before, which seemed a thousand years ago to Fjola now, the close buildings offered more shelter than the inn had, and she found her eyes burning with exhaustion already. Falling asleep was an easy affair, but it was restless and broken as her thoughts and dreams kept turning to her winged protector and the gentleman healer who had helped her. She didn’t know how long she had been drifting off before suddenly she felt a presence close to her side. Alarmed, she sat up quickly and raised her fists, but an old man with a green, draped hat squatted before her and raised his hands in supplication.

“Miss, surely you have a place to sleep for the night, yes?”

Fjola shook her head no, still on guard.

“Then come,” he said kindly, “I offer free meals to those in need, and a place to sleep that is not in the street. It’s not much, but it is free.”

Fjola didn’t believe him for a second and remained where she was as he began walking up the street. The old man turned back to make sure she was following, but a resigned acceptance crossed over his haggard features as he realized she did not trust him, like all of his charges before desperation set in. He nodded with doleful understanding.

“I realize I must seem crazy or malicious, miss, but I assure you, I have no ill intent. Should you be interested, my shelter is over there,” he gestured to someplace beyond a stone archway, “I hang a pot outside on a pole when there is no supper, and bring it in when there is. Please, should you decide you wish for a hot meal and a warmer place to sleep, you are always welcome.”

With that, he continued his walk up the street and around the corner, out of sight. Fjola curled up a little tighter, wondering if she should try to find some place more secure so that she remained unperturbed during the night, but was too tired to look and soon fell back to her disjointed rest.

*

Fjola woke just before dawn, as usual, getting up with difficulty, her body stiff and sore from the harsh sleeping conditions and chill in the air. _You’d think I’d have gotten used to it by now,_ she thought, stretching and looking around, wondering what new efforts she could make today. She sat on a nearby barrel, slowly eating half of the remainder of the sourdough she had, savoring it and planning on the rest for dinner. She smiled and remembered the hot stew she had been gifted the night before last, swearing she could still smell it. She stopped for a second, sniffing the air. _Wait a minute… Someone_ is _cooking!_

Her stomach growled uncomfortably despite having a few bites of bread in it, and she had to make a firm, conscious effort to put the rest of the hardening loaf back into the pocket of her skirt, deciding to take a walk to clear her head and get away from the smell of hot food. As she walked up the hill of San Sebastian, she noticed a crudely assembled door opening up into a small, dirty plaza, the old man from the night before propping it ajar with a large stone. Fjola looked up and saw a metal pole on the side of the building, but no pot. Suddenly the man started waving at her, beckoning her forward with his hand and a crooked, gap-toothed smile.

“Please, miss, please! I am making soup now. If you are not willing to stay, at least take some with you.”

Despite her misgivings from the night prior, Fjola felt tempted to take the man up on his offer. She still hesitated though, until a small group of men passed by her, shuffling and downcast. The old man greeted them kindly.

“Ah, Romain, Freshy, Devan! Good to see you!”

Fjola watched the men shamble in to the plaza, still dejected but perking their heads up a bit at the thought of hot food awaiting them. Fjola knew what that felt like… With a sigh, she walked apprehensively into the plaza as well, keeping an eye to make sure the door still stayed open.

“Welcome, welcome!” the old man said, approaching her. “I am Germaine, please, sit down inside with the rest of my guests. The soup will be ready in just a few minutes.”

Fjola did so tensely, sitting on the bench at the far end, away from the group of men and as close as she could possibly be to the exit. She sat in quiet thought for a few minutes, alternately massaging her head and sides until a bowl was placed before her, full of a thin, steaming broth and smelling faintly of something sour. The men received their bowls next and didn’t hesitate before digging in, one even pouring the soup directly into his mouth instead of using the wooden spoon they had each been provided. Fjola picked hers up and dipped it into the soup, noticing it had almost nothing in it before bringing it to her mouth. While hot and satisfying, in a way, it tasted of old vegetables and dirty water. She hoped she wouldn’t become sick, but knew she had feasted on worse things and finished the thin broth quickly, still grateful for the hot meal. The men seemed to be of the same mind, and Fjola suddenly felt a great pity for them. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled the last of the loaf of sourdough out and ripped it into four even portions, giving them each a piece, but reserving one. They looked at each other first, one of them blushing with shame, but thanked her and ate the bread voraciously. Germaine saw from around the corner and Fjola approached him, giving him the last piece.

“Thank you,” she said, looking at the floor. She felt the same as the men, she supposed, full of shame at receiving charity, but incredibly grateful for it, nonetheless.

“It was my pleasure, miss,” Germaine said, attempting to hand back the bread. Fjola stepped back and shook her head. The old man smiled and beckoned her away from the other men, pointing to another room down a narrow hallway.

“I have no feminine clothes to give you, I’m afraid,” he said, “I do not often have women here, truth be told. But there are clean items in there, should you desire. I know of several labor shops and farms in the area that could have work for you, as well, but we shall worry about that tomorrow, or when you feel better. Take as long as you need to recover.”

Fjola felt the ache in her head and ribs, and looking down at her tattered skirt, suddenly wanted to cry. Why had she received such fortune in the past couple of days? She hadn’t found this sort of charity in any of the other places she had resided, perhaps not even the temple in which she was raised. She held back her tears, however, and rifled through the clothing until she had found a man’s small blouse and a pair of pants that fit. When she emerged, Germaine showed her to another small room with a pile of hay and a thin blanket, where she laid down and immediately fell into a deep sleep, dreaming about soaring above the clouds at night.

*

When Fjola had arisen around past noon and eaten a thin, mealy porridge that the shelter provided, Germaine gave her a long list of possible sources of employment, most of them vineyards and farms, who at this time of year needed all the labor they could get.

“Though I would not advise this, miss,” he said, “Given your injuries.”

Fjola was embarrassed that he had noticed from her unsteady gait and restricted movements that she was in pain, denying it and insisting she could work anyplace that would have her. He relented and Fjola walked out with the list, heading up the street toward the first one with an air of renewed hope.


	12. Regis Plans a Visit

Regis grabbed the bag that the young lady had left for them over a week prior, jauntily preparing himself to go to Beauclair Port. He had decided to shop there alone on his and Dettlaff’s behalf, knowing that going there with him would be a terrible idea, as he’d likely be recognized. Neither of them were worried about running into any royalty or nobility there, certainly not either of the Duchesses, but were one of the few people Dettlaff had communicated with when he resided in the old toy shop there, it could make things complicated, or risky if someone casually mentioned his name and it traveled “through the grapevine” so to speak.

Not only that, Regis was planning on visiting Geralt, in order to catch up with his old friend. That is, of course, if he was in an agreeable mood. Regis knew he was still ignorant of Dettlaff’s survival of their previous encounter, and though it wasn’t really his intent to deceive his old friend, found he was having misgivings about mentioning the truth to him.

“I don’t care if the Witcher knows of my survival,” Dettlaff had said, almost bored. “If he wishes to be a fool and attack me, I’ll kill him. If he leaves me be, I shall extend the same courtesy.”

Regis didn’t take the threat too seriously, knowing Dettlaff would rather avoid the fight, seeing it as childish or a waste of time, but knew he’d likely have to make an appeal to Geralt to make him see reason.

“Perhaps I shall inquire about getting a mule again,” Regis mused, filling his bag carefully with some potions he had created to sell and bundles of straw to keep them from breaking.

Dettlaff gave a noncommittal grunt, his face buried deep in a book. A thought occurred to Regis.

“My friend, I recall that once upon a time you used to have a quite a knack – and a rather great fondness – for artistry. Might such a pastime be of interest to you again? Seeing as how we’ll likely have a lot of time here, and more readily available supplies such as a book of parchment and charcoal.”

Dettlaff didn’t look up at first. Then his eyes drifted up from his book and he gave a small, appreciative nod. Regis smiled, adjusting both the bag that had been gifted to him and his regular leather satchel and setting out from the crypt, hearing Dettlaff locking it quickly behind him.

* * * * * * * * * *

Fjola had been rejected from every single place she had applied to in the past week; today’s count alone included three vineyards already and even more labor camps. If it wasn’t her lack of experience that disqualified her, it was the fact that she was still slightly injured, or a female. Irritated and exhausted after a long, fruitless day, she looked at the last name on the list Germaine had given her, one of a place she had passed by on her way through the Sansretour Valley and had avoided at first, as it didn’t seem particularly inviting. She sighed as she backtracked from Castel Ravello and towards the recently renovated vineyard of Corvo Bianco.


	13. Regis and Geralt Catch Up

“Regis!” Geralt called, stepping forward quickly to wrap his arms around his vampire friend. He returned the hug with vigor, clapping him roughly on the shoulder and extricating a bottle of something from his leather satchel. Geralt smiled and said, “Celebrating something or regretting it?”  
“There are occasions” he said, smiling, “when it’s simply impossible not to have a drink.”  
“...not to have a drink,” Geralt said at the same time.

Regis laughed.

“Cirilla told you about that?”  
“Yeah.”  
“I had hoped I hadn’t frightened her then, but she seemed quite capable, and from what you told me two years ago, it seems as though she is.”  
“Something tells me you’re here for more than just reminiscing, Regis,” stated Geralt, seeing through his friend’s tactics immediately.

The vampire nodded at the Witcher, pushing the bottle into his hand firmly.

“All in due time, Geralt, though I must insist you have a drink with me first. I suspect you’ll need it.”

Geralt raised his scarred eyebrow, but agreed, the two of them sitting in a pair of chairs on the side of the estate’s main building, opening the mandrake hooch and grimacing at the fumes. They each took a quick swig and Geralt placed his glass back down on the table between them with a forceful clink.

“Talk,” he said.

Regis did.

*

“You’d better be joking,” Geralt said, his voice dangerously low and looking like he was smoldering as the setting sun tinged his snow-white hair orange and scarlet.

“Indeed I almost wish I were. But the fact of the matter remains that I did not kill Dettlaff. Grievously wounded at the time, yes, but he is alive and well, and I have been helping him these two years, as I’ve explained. He’s made wondrous strides, really, but I firmly believe that for him to truly repair his life, he must be able to stare down the Duchess Syanna and learn to forgive her. All in due time, of course,” he explained hastily. “I suspect that right now he’d still likely delight in murdering her himself, as slowly and as painfully as possible.”  
“And despite that, you thought it was a good idea to bring him _here?_ Are you out of your mind?”  
“Quite possibly. Forgive the deception in regards to his fate, my friend, but Dettlaff is my companion too, and like you and I and the rest of the _hansa,_ we’ve had a great many adventures together and I care for him very deeply. Which is why I’ve come to you.”  
“You said he’s been pretty uncooperative – I don’t think that means he exactly values your time or efforts, Regis.” Geralt paused as he took another swig of the hooch directly from the bottle, their glasses abandoned shortly after their conversation had turned sour. “And if I were you, I’d take that to heart.” He gave his friend a significant look. Regis sighed and knit his eyebrows, staring out at the amber-tinted rows of olive trees and grapevines nearly bursting with fruit.

“Your crop is successful this year, I take it?”  
“You’re avoiding the conversation.”  
“Mmm, perhaps a little. In truth, I’ve no idea what to say.”  
“That’s new.”

Regis scowled. “I’m not in the mood for jests, Geralt.”

“Just say you’ll leave him in that damned crypt and hope he stays there.”  
“I cannot do that. You know I can’t.”  
“Well he’s not staying here. Go ahead and use my cellar if you want, got that alchemy lab set up there and plenty of ingredients stocked up, but keep that vindictive friend of yours on a leash. Or at least out of my basement.”  
“We’re quite well-situated in the crypt for now, thank you very much. And as I said, he’s more than willing to completely ignore you if you ignore him. So for now, if you cannot let bygones be bygones, at least allow him the courtesy of not hunting him down.”  
“You know I’m not usually the vindictive type, Regis.”  
“Hm, no, not usually. But he did…” Regis paused with a pained look on his face. “I do not wish to recall the events from that time,” he said, “So please forgive me for being reticent. However, I need to know that you’ll agree _not_ to bother him. I assure you that despite his rather admirable fight to remain aloof and untroubled by humans, he has made great strides in recuperating his former self. Though I’m… still working on him,” he finished, drinking a gulp of the mandrake hooch and passing it back to Geralt.  
“You have my word. But like I said…” he warned, holding up a finger.  
“I know, death and gloom and all that sort of thing. But not to worry, you’ll have no need of it.”

Geralt relaxed and sat back in his chair, sighing contentedly as he took another tug from the bottle. Regis appeared lost in thought for a moment, glaring out over the landscape in deep concentration.

“Geralt, do you recall your pursuit of Ciri, and those that got in the way between you?”  
“Mmhmm,” he said. “Where are you going with this?”  
“Do you feel you would – had you not beheaded him, that is – ever feel compassion or forgiveness for, say, Vilgefortz? Even if he were to repent, throw his hands up in defeat and admit all wrongdoing with the promise to never behave that way again – even if you believed it for a _second_ – do you think you’d be able to pardon him?”  
“No,” Geralt said flatly, meeting Regis’ eyes. “I’d kill him just the same. Maybe even take a little longer to do it, if he was in chains.”

Regis gave a small grunt and nodded.

“Why?” Geralt asked.  
“I’m beginning to realize that perhaps what I asked of Dettlaff truly is too much. That what I’ve asked him to do is indeed impossible.” He sighed and ran his long, clawed fingers back through his unruly gray hair. “I feel as though I’ve made a terrible mistake. Forgive me, Geralt, for burdening you with my thoughts, but know I appreciate your candor all the same. It’s always refreshing and a flattery of the highest caliber to receive another’s honesty.”  
“Mmhmm.”

Regis sighed contentedly and said, “Ah, enough about scorned vampires and crazed mages. Tell me, Geralt, how is Dandelion these days? Has he been welcomed back into the Duchy yet?”

Geralt laughed and began to fill Regis in, the pair of them chuckling as they sat drinking and reminiscing, watching the sun set over the vineyard, a lone traveler slowly making their way up the path.


	14. I Know Her

Fjola was grateful for the sun at her back, warming her as she walked up the hill to the main grounds of the Corvo Bianco vineyard. She noticed there were actually quite a few workers milling about already, and her heart sank. This was the last place on her list, and she was desperate. She knew Germaine would let her stay at the shelter as long as she needed, but the charity still made her feel a bit uncomfortable, as well as the stigma against her as, essentially, a beggar. Breathing deeply, she approached a man dressed in a silk suit with a frilled collar and wrists and a pair of small, round glasses.

“Good evening, lady,” he greeted in a thick Toussaintois accent, “I am Barnabas-Basil Foulty, the majordomo here. How might I be of service to you?”  
“Um” she said, suddenly nervous. _This place is nicer than I thought._ “I’m here to ask if you need any servants, or laborers…”  
“Do you have any experience?” he asked.

Fjola began to rattle off her training at the temple, as well as various other skills she had picked up in her travels, such as small house repairs and cooking, but the entire time, Barnabas-Basil merely gazed at her politely, if a little bored. When she had finished, Fjola already knew what his answer would be.

“I apologize, miss, but as of right now we already have many laborers, and a fine chef to cook any and all meals required by the Master, Geralt of Rivia…”

Geralt peered over the side of the deck at the mention of his name, then sat back again and grunted, the alcohol going to his head faster than he had expected. Regis glanced over at him, hardly affected at all, though still enjoying the excuse to lounge for a little bit.

“Anything interesting?” he asked.  
“Just another laborer asking for a job. Most of the other vineyards have already hired everyone for the autumn harvest, so I tend to get a lot of people asking. I let Barnabas handle all of it,” Geralt said, waving a slow hand in the air dismissively.

Curious, Regis peeked over the edge of the balustrade and immediately his eyes widened. Geralt picked up on this and sat forward, suddenly alert despite his foggy head.

“What is it?” he asked tensely.  
“I know her,” Regis said. “Well… a little. What in the world is she doing out here?”  
“What do you mean?” asked Geralt.

Regis breathed deeply and began to quickly explain what had happened and how they had encountered and rescued the woman, though left out the part about Dettlaff turning into his most feral form in order to do it. He doubted Geralt would be pleased to recall it. Once he was done, Geralt’s brows were furrowed and he appeared thoughtful.

“So… I guess he really is turning a corner, then?”  
“Yes,” Regis said, “Though I don’t think he’ll admit it.” He thought for another moment. “Geralt, would you be willing to employ this woman?”  
“What? Why?”  
“Forgive my impulsive request, but I believe she might be able to have a positive impact on Dettlaff, were the two to get to know each other.”  
Geralt nearly laughed. “You’re joking? I’m sure the last thing he wants is to be around another human woman.”  
“He saved her, Geralt,” Regis reminded. “He didn’t have to, knowing I was fully capable, but he did. I believe it was out of pure mercy, and, I hope, empathy. I’d wish to have help in stoking these emotions in him once more.”  
“What would me hiring her have to do with any of that?”  
“Convenience of access, to put it rather crudely. As her employer, you would be willing to be more… _lenient_ with her hours,” he said with an impish smirk. “I’m sure days off would be quite easy to come by, for her. Not to mention, she will stay here in the servants’ quarters, yes? She certainly cannot – and likely _will_ not – reside with us in the crypt.”  
“Again, why should I care?”  
“I’m sure knowing that one of your former enemies is rehabilitating himself will go a long way in easing your anxieties about him having survived your encounter. And,” Regis added simply, softly, “Because you have a kind heart.”

Geralt sighed and pressed his fingers into his eyes.

“Fine,” he finally said, “But she still has to work.”  
“That is up to her,” Regis reminded, “though I doubt she’d come looking if she wasn’t willing.”

“Hey!” Geralt yelled over the balustrade and Barnabas-Basil Foulty looked up, nonplussed. The woman was already partway down the road, though not quite off the property. “Did you just hire her?” he asked his majordomo.  
“No, sir, we are essentially full of workers, and she is quite inexperienced in the skills we require…”  
“I don’t care, go hire her,” he said.  
“What?” Foulty asked in surprise.  
“Hire her!” Regis shouted with a grin, and Foulty looked back to Geralt for confirmation before rushing down the road and calling the young woman back.

From their distance, Geralt and Regis could see them briefly converse before they both nodded and she began to follow him back, stomping her feet and shaking her fists in the air in excitement behind his back. Regis chuckled slightly and Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“Thank you, my friend,” the vampire said, slinking into the shadows so that she would not see him just yet, “I have a very good feeling about this development indeed.”

*

Fjola was shown the servant’s quarters and was beside herself at seeing she would have an actual _bed_ – with blankets! And a _pillow!_ She threw herself upon it and, despite the fact that the sun had just barely set, fell asleep, smiling and finally free of worry.

*

Dettlaff took the art book and set of various charcoal pencils from Regis with deep appreciation, giving him a quick, tight hug before rifling through the items. Regis could not help but appreciate the way his long fingers ran across the surface of the currently blank pages almost reverently, his long nails making a gentle scratching noise that was somehow both soothing and exciting. He smiled and put the rest of the items he had bought in their proper places, for once not making much conversation. His head was too full of plans and hopes for the future, despite the fact that his heart was telling him to lower his expectations. Dettlaff could be quite unpredictable, and Regis knew he would have to go about this in just the right way, lest his friend become angry or upset. Still, he could not help but wish desperately for things to go well with his friend, and he held on to it tightly, no matter how tenuous that hope might be at the moment.

_All good things to those who wait,_ Regis reminded himself.


	15. At the Vineyard

It had been a few days since she had first started at Corvo Bianco, but Fjola felt she was finally getting the hang of things. At first she thought, _How difficult can plucking grapes be?_ It was fun for the first hour or so, but after that, things got tedious. She had also been chided about exactly _which_ grapes she was picking, whether they were too ripe or not ripe enough, how blushed or dusky they should be, whether to clip the entire bunch or just pick a few choice ones, not to mention the actual physical part of it – bending and stooping, lifting and lugging, treading and retreading – and by the end of the first day she was utterly exhausted, wondering whether or not she had made a mistake. The fresh memory of homelessness and hunger kept her where she was, however, and she found as she learned and became more practiced that things did get slightly easier for her. _Slightly._

Suddenly one of her fellow vineyard workers began ringing the bell for the midday meal and Fjola practically leapt at the chance for a break. She wasn’t even very hungry, oddly enough, but her fingers were sore and her sides still ached when she moved in a particular fashion, so a chance to sit down and rest was more than welcome. As she did so however, reaching for a piece of bread with honeycomb and placing it upon her plate, she couldn’t help but feel a little uneasy, as though someone was watching her. She looked about but seeing nothing and no one besides her coworkers, who were too busy feasting themselves to give her a second glance, she resumed her meal.

*

“Just go talk to her,” Geralt growled, watching Regis quietly examine his newest worker from behind the shutter of the window. He backed away with a small hiss as she looked up to stare at the house.

“It’s not so easy, Geralt,” Regis said scornfully, walking away from the window and gesturing animatedly with his hands. “What am I to say? ‘Yes, hello, I know we don’t even know each others’ names, but I was curious if you would follow me to a crypt in a decrepit cemetery in the woods, alone, so you might meet my reclusive friend with an unpredictable temper, history of murder, and sometimes massive fangs for a cup of afternoon tea?’”  
“Regis,” Geralt said uncomfortably, “You know that some of those things describe _you too,_ right?”

Regis looked at him with confusion for a moment before his face relaxed and he smiled, the laugh lines deepening around his eyes.

“Hm, I suppose so…” he admitted with a chuckle, putting his finger and thumb to his chin in contemplation.  
“Reclusive, massive fangs, history of killing…” Geralt listed.  
“Enough,” Regis said calmly. “I’m aware of my past.”  
“Sorry, Regis. Wasn’t trying to shame you, just remind you…”  
“...That anyone is capable of change?” He raised his eyebrows, giving Geralt a significant look, who appeared to be annoyed, but sighed and jerked his head a little in credence. “And now you understand my position,” Regis continued. “You held your blade at my throat once, too. And decided to spare me anyway. You, a Witcher, whose entire existence revolves around eradicating murderous monsters. And yet, stayed his weapon because he knew it was the right thing to do.”  
“I know the difference between who’s a monster and who’s not,” he said.  
“And so do I. Please trust my judgment, my friend.”

Geralt decided to drop the subject and bring it back to the laborer Regis had made him hire.

“What are you going to say to her? Or are you going to wait until some bandits try to kill her again to really introduce yourself?”  
“That’s hardly fair,” Regis chided, but sighed, bringing his head back and chin up, squaring his shoulders. “But I suppose you're right." He took a long, deep breath. "Well,” he said, “I’m assuming you don’t mind that she takes the rest of the day off?” he asked, amusement in his voice.

Geralt motioned to her with his palm open and a smirk on his face and Regis walked out the door, surprised to find himself inexplicably nervous.

*

Geralt watched from the window quietly with a small smile as he saw Regis confidently walk down the path towards the laborers returning to work in the vineyards, seeing him get closer and closer to the woman he had just hired. Suddenly, Regis stopped and ducked between some rows before reaching her completely, seeming to vanish from sight almost instantly.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Geralt grumbled, turning away from the window and deciding to just let Regis handle it himself.


	16. Care for a Stroll?

Fjola got that funny feeling of being watched again and turned around to look behind her, but saw nothing. Her fellow laborers were already wrists-deep in the vines and she went to join them, but suddenly saw something rustle behind a row that they had already worked on earlier in the day.

_Archespores?_ she thought with fear, creeping over carefully to check. Instead of a venomous plant with dangerous vines, however, all she saw was a man in a black leather jerkin and fraying shirt beneath it, his back to her as he plucked a singular grape from a cluster and examined it. He was a little bit older and she could see as she got closer… _it’s him!_

Fjola audibly gasped and the man who had helped heal her almost two weeks ago turned to her sharply, his free arm clutching the strap of his leather satchel defensively. _Is he frightened?_ she wondered.

“It’s you,” she said softly, walking closer until she was barely two feet away from him. He suddenly smiled and bowed low, his right leg going out straight, toes pointing up and arm stretching out behind him with a flourish, his left leg folding as he leaned back and his other hand spread over his heart.

“Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy,” he finally introduced himself. “But you may call me Regis.” He lifted his head from the bow and smiled charmingly. “At your service.”

Fjola gave a small, uncomfortable curtsy and said, “I’m Fjola. Just… Fjola.”

Regis straightened himself and almost looked like he was glowing, which Fjola thought was impressive given the fact that he was somewhat pale and the day had grown cloudy. There was a quiet moment between them before they both tried to talk at once.

“I apologize for the abrupt dismissal…” Regis began.  
“I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to thank you…” she tried.

They both stopped and smiled a little before Regis held out the crook of his elbow for her to take and gestured down the path that led outside the estate with a soft jerk of his head.

“Care for a stroll?” he asked.  
“Oh,” Fjola said, a little surprised, “I’d love to, but…”  
“What’s the matter?”  
“My boss…” she started.  
“...Just so happens to be a _very_ close friend of mine,” he finished. “I promise you, he will not miss you this afternoon. I shall clear it with him once I return.”

Fjola looked doubtful, but Regis offered his elbow again.

“I insist,” he said.

Worried that she was out of her mind, she took it and the two of them walked down in the path as the sky above threatened to rain.

_Besides,_ she thought with amusement, _if I get fired, at least I can probably stay with him in the crypt._

*

"How fascinating,” Regis said, Fjola blushing at the fact he was genuinely interested in her succinct but somewhat lengthy story about how she ended up in Toussaint. “I thought I detected a slight Skelligan accent, though obviously, quite hidden. I am glad to see my hunch was not altogether incorrect.”  
“Yeah,” she said, “It was such a long time ago, and I was so young… I guess that stuff just fades.”  
“I’ve found that a great many things do indeed change over long periods of time, and I suspect the longer one lives, the more drastic the changes they can make. Although,” he added quickly, suddenly looking perturbed, “That’s just a theory.”  
Fjola laughed a little. “Regis, I know you’re a little bit older but it’s not like I think you’re ancient.”

His black eyes seemed to suddenly glint with amusement at a joke Fjola didn’t get, but he turned his gaze back to the road they were walking on, which she knew, depending on the path, led either to the Belgaard vineyard or back towards Mère-Lachaiselongue. She suddenly felt hesitant despite Regis’ great company, a feeling he picked up on immediately, and they stopped.

“Is something troubling you?” he asked gently.

Fjola simply stared out at the mountains, then back to the Sansretour. Regis let go of her arm and turned to face her.

“If you feel uncomfortable in my presence, please say so. I won’t hold you in my company against your will.”  
“It’s not that,” she said, still looking away, ashamed.  
“Forgive my intrusion, Fjola, but then what is the matter?”

She looked up at him earnestly and felt crippling shame, but asked anyway.

“Regis, why do you live in a crypt?”

To Fjola’s great surprise, Regis did not get upset or angry, but tilted his head back and laughed heartily, though curiously kept his mouth covered with his hand. When he saw she looked utterly confused, he cleared his throat to explain.

“I’m sure you know, as an herbalist and alchemist, my work can be very delicate – if not downright harmful. Not to mention many of the plants and ingredients I use would be harmed terribly were they exposed to sunlight, and even more still require a cool, dry environment. Therefore, an old crypt in an abandoned cemetery seemed the best place to carry out my work.”

Fjola looked relieved at this explanation, knowing first-hand that what he said about the plants and potions made sense – she had had some experience with them, after all, and not just as Regis’ patient. The temple she had trained in had taught her a decent amount of herbalism and alchemy, though she was woefully out of practice.

Regis suddenly had a mischievous look on his face as he leaned forward and said in a soft, conspiratorial voice, “I also make moonshine there, and the cemetery is perfect for cultivating the particular variety of mandrake I use.”

At this Fjola laughed out loud and all of her unease seemed to melt away in an instant. Regis was relieved and smiled through his pursed lips, but, as if in stark contrast to their delight, there was suddenly a loud crack of thunder and the heavens seemed to open up in a heartbeat and utterly drench the land in rain. Regis ran them both for cover under the golden leaves of an oak, but at the first flash of lightning, thought otherwise. The alternative, however, was not much better… he hadn’t planned on coming to this part so soon, but it seemed as though fate had its own plans.

“Forgive me if I seem forward,” he yelled, “But I think it advisable we seek better shelter.”

Fjola looked around through the torrential rain but saw nothing they could reliably utilize. She looked back to him in confusion and saw him raise his eyebrows in a seeming apology before leading her towards the Caroberta Woods and Mère-Lachaiselongue cemetery.


	17. Weak

Dettlaff lit a fire in the small pit Regis had installed in the middle of the crypt, warming his hands and heaving a deep sigh of pleasure. Though Regis’ company generally made him feel happy, despite their differences and Regis’ constant efforts to “help” him, sometimes he really just needed the peace and quiet of when his friend was gone picking herbs, shopping, or just out strolling in the woods. He had a strong suspicion Regis was trying to give him some space, which he was grateful for, and made him appreciate his loyal friend all the more. _Still,_ he thought, _solitude is also nice._ He heard thunder outside and felt another wave of contentment; he loved storms, and the soothing sounds of rain and thunder. Laying against the back of a dark wooden bench Regis had somehow relocated to the crypt and placed near to the pit, Dettlaff heaved another contended sigh and closed his eyes for a few minutes, listening to both the storm and the crackling fire.

He had started dozing off, he wasn’t sure for how long, when suddenly he smelled something… _odd._ Lifting his nose to the air slightly, annoyed by how the heavy rain was muddling the outside scents, he sniffed the air to try to suss it out. The strong herbal scent of Regis was always identifiable, even with the heavy moisture and rain distorting it, but there was something else, something… _sweeter._ He couldn’t place it, but thought it smelled faintly of fruit, and maybe perhaps orchids. He sniffed the air again, walking towards the crypt door when suddenly it burst open and a drenched Regis came tumbling through, an equally soaked female companion directly behind him. She straightened once they reached the bottom of the stairs and froze when she saw him. So did Regis. So did Dettlaff.

“Dettlaff,” Regis started cautiously, holding his hand out to gesture towards his female companion, “This is Fjola. I believe you remember her. Fjola, this is my very dear friend, Dettlaff van der Eretein.”

Dettlaff bowed in the same manner Regis had, despite the awkward circumstances, and Fjola gave her small curtsy in return.

“It’s nice to meet you again,” she said.  
“Likewise,” Dettlaff returned stiffly.  
“Well,” said Regis, clapping his hands loudly, “Now that the pleasantries are over, I believe some sort of dinner is in order, yes?”

Dettlaff gave a small nod of assent but Fjola looked uncomfortable and said, “I shouldn’t… you’ve already done enough for me, really, I can’t possibly intrude any more.”

Regis realized she was talking about his efforts to heal her, as well as the night they had given her at the inn.

“Nonsense,” he said with a smile, “It was our pleasure. But if that’s how you truly feel, you can help me cook. Then you may consider your non-existent debt repaid.”  
“I feel I’d owe a lot more than…”  
“You said you’ve had culinary training, yes? Then a meal from your hands would be worth much more than some herbal water and a night in a thin, straw bed.”

Fjola looked bashful.

“Please,” Regis said, gesturing to the raised area he had dedicated to his laboratory and library which were above the entrance, up another small staircase at the side of the crypt. The “kitchen” was little more than a small bit of extra counter space next to his workspace and was decorated only with a box of various fruits, vegetables, and roots. Dettlaff lifted a thick metal grate that resembled a table, placing it above the fire in the middle of the crypt so it could heat and be used for cooking. Fjola noticed it took him no effort to do this, despite the obvious weight of it, but said nothing as she gathered ingredients to start preparing them. Regis joined her but ended up feeling a bit superfluous as she skillfully chopped and diced the food and herbs she was using, becoming completely engrossed in the activity, her eyes alight. Eventually she put everything in a pot on the metal grate to cook, wiping her hands clean and standing to the side to watch the food cook. Dettlaff took this opportunity to summon Regis to the stone staircase leading to the door outside, away from their guest’s hearing. When they reached the small alcove, Dettlaff’s eyes were wild and his sharp teeth were bared.

“What is the meaning of this?” he snarled.  
“I honestly hadn’t planned on formally introducing the two of you yet, but we happened to be in the area and the rain caught us both. This was a completely spontaneous happenstance.”  
“ _Yet?”_ he seethed. “How long have you been friends with this woman?”  
“I only just saw her a few days ago while visiting Geralt. She happened to be there at the same time, inquiring about a job. I convinced him to hire her and let her have some, hm, shall we say… _liberties_ with her production and labor expectations. Today was the first time I had even spoken to her, and I had had no intentions of bringing her to the crypt at all. Though it seems perhaps fate – or a stunning coincidence – has had their hand shuffling the cards about today, so to speak,” he chuckled.  
“I fail to see how this is humorous,” Dettlaff said, peering back at the woman who was politely giving them space. “I want to be left alone, especially by humans. _Especially_ by this one.”

Regis’ ears perked up at this line and he cocked his head in an inquisitorial manner.

“You mean to say you wanted to avoid this specific woman entirely? Why?”  
Dettlaff’s cheeks reddened slightly and he looked away. “I do not wish to discuss it.”  
“Dettlaff, now is not the time to be coy. Do you know her?”  
“I hadn’t met her at all before the night we rescued her,” he said.  
“You mean the night before _you_ rescued her,” Regis corrected.  
“You were going to anyway,” Dettlaff said dismissively.  
“But I didn’t. You rushed in much more quickly than I, despite knowing I was actively getting ready to interfere. I asked you then, and I shall ask you again now: why?”

Dettlaff turned his face away.

“ _Why?”_ Regis repeated, a little more forcefully.  
“She made me feel…” he hesitated, his voice barely above a whisper, shaking his head gently in what Regis realized was confusion. He didn’t know how to put it. “...weak,” was all he could manage.  
“Weak?” Regis cocked his head back again.  
“I lack the ability to explain it,” he admitted, still looking away.  
“Try,” Regis urged softly. Dettlaff looked back to him and scowled.

“When I saw her being attacked, at first I felt nothing. When she attacked the bandit, suddenly I felt…” he hesitated again. “Hm. Relieved?” Regis nodded and he continued. “By the time she was being held down, suddenly it was anger. The type I’ve always felt at injustices, the kind you say I need to learn to… hm… manage,” he said with a sneer. “Once I realized I was furious at the situation, suddenly I felt as though I was helpless again. And then I realized _she_ was helpless. When I saw that you would likely not reach her in time, I acted… impulsively, though you’ve told me countless times not to,” he grumbled. He remained quiet for another moment as he processed the memory of that night, and Regis mercifully allowed him to instead of butting in as usual. After a short time had passed, Dettlaff said, “Losing control like that… giving in to my fury again… it felt good. Retributive. But also maddening, and hurtful, like I had… lost something.” He thought again for another moment. “I felt weak, Regis. Weak for losing control, and weak for _caring_ that I had lost control.” He huffed. “…and then again when she touched my monstrous hand. I…” he struggled to get the words out and bared his teeth again, clenching his fists, his claws starting to grow. “Her touch… it made my heart race. I was terrified, and yet… it hurt, receiving it. I felt like something terribly wrong had happened, though secretly it pleased me. And, once again, I felt weakened.”

“By her touch,” Regis said in a soft breath. Dettlaff, emotionally exhausted, only nodded.  
“In that moment, I felt like less of a monster.”

Regis’ face softened and he embraced his friend briefly before grasping him about the shoulders and holding him at arms’ length proudly.

“This is monumental, my dearest friend,” he said. Dettlaff looked confused. “You’ve discovered empathy. Not just righteous ideals or a black-and-white morality code, beyond the retribution you wanted to – and did – take, even more than the delight you felt in another’s touch,” Regis continued, Dettlaff looking uncomfortable but staying silent. “More than the bestial love you had for your former mate or unconditional, slavish devotion to her, or needing to take revenge for her actions. More than your fury, or lust, or ethics. You felt something – helplessness – and recognized another – _her_ – feeling the same way. You connected through your mutual emotions and finally, truly _understood_ what it meant to be in another’s place. To feel their feelings wholly, to…”  
“Regis, please,” Dettlaff groaned, tired of his sermon.  
“My apologies,” Regis said, releasing his friend. “But this is what I was desperately trying to help you find. And after years, it was not me who aided you in discovering it, but _her,”_ he said, pointing. “This is what I desired for you, most of all, Dettlaff. To find humanity and not be repulsed by it, but instead, intrigued.”

Dettlaff looked at Regis for a moment, then to the woman inside bending over the pot and stirring it, then back to his friend again. He looked truly conflicted, caught between a rock and a hard place.

“Please,” Regis begged softly. “Please try.”

Dettlaff scrunched up his face for a moment before heaving a large breath and releasing his tension, giving a stiff nod and agreeing to Regis’ plea.

“I will try,” he vowed, but held up a stern finger, glowering. “But no promises.”


	18. A Pleasant Evening

“Positively splendid,” Regis said, polishing off the second serving of soup he had taken. “It was, all-in-all, a perfect day for a meal such as this. I thank you for the courtesy.”

Fjola was a little taken aback. _Why is he thanking_ me? _They’re the ones who took me in and provided for me. Twice._ Regis must have sensed her thoughts, gently putting the bowl down and leaning forward

“I know you feel you owe us an enormous debt, Fjola, but truly, I don’t want you to think anything of it. The last thing I would care for is for you to only spend time with either of us simply because you feel _beholden_ to be in our company.”

Fjola’s eyes flickered to Dettlaff when Regis said the phrase _“either of us.”_ He had been sullen and silent for nearly the entire meal, instead choosing to let his older friend do most of the talking. She doubted very much he would ever want to spend time with her again after this. Regis stood and collected the bowls, dropping them into a basin by his alchemy station and insisting he would take care of them in the morning. Fjola looked at the door at the head of the crypt’s entry staircase with worry; it was still pouring rain, and pitch black out, as it was somewhat late into the evening. There was no way she was going to be able to get back to Corvo Bianco tonight.

“I apologize,” Regis said, “I did not mean to trap you here, only shelter us. It seems the weather has made fools of us both.”

Fjola gave a half-hearted smile, dreading spending the night here. Although she doubted the two would hurt her – Dettlaff seemed grouchy, but harmless – she still felt uncomfortable and vulnerable, especially as she had seen only one bed here, next to Regis’ library. _Well,_ she thought, _I’ve slept in worse places than against a crypt wall_ _and floor_ _. I can manage._

Regis started going through some of his effects and pulled out a small chessboard that folded into a box, the pieces rattling around inside of it.

“Anyone care for a game?” he asked. Fjola and Dettlaff both made a face at the same time.  
“You always defeat me, Regis,” he said. “I’m tired of it.”  
“I never had a head for chess either,” Fjola admitted. “I was always more into cards.”

Dettlaff raised an eyebrow.

“Hm,” he growled, “Me too.” He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then asked, “Would you care for a game?”

Fjola’s face lit up and Regis retrieved a deck for them, which was worn and frayed, but still usable. He returned himself to a chair and table near his laboratory to play against himself at chess, leaving Dettlaff and Fjola to their card game. They sat on one of the low concrete walls, facing each other, but still several feet apart. He let her choose which game they should play first, and demolished her within minutes. Then again, and again, and again. After their seventh game and getting beaten soundly once more, Fjola tossed the cards down with a laugh and exclaimed, “Alright, how are you doing it? Have you memorized which cards are which because of the way they’re damaged?”

Dettlaff looked affronted, then angry.

“Of course not,” he snapped, scowling, his bright blue eyes lit with malice. Regis looked over stiffly in concern, but did not move. Fjola was still looking at the cards however and hadn’t noticed Dettlaff’s ire, shuffling the deck with a smile and saying, “Don’t worry, I know you’re not cheating, Dettlaff. But I’m usually pretty good at this game, I don’t know how you keep beating me so easily. Where did you learn it?”

She finally looked up and saw his face, which was still twisted and dour. She looked alarmed and froze, but after a moment he shook his head slightly and relaxed.

“Here,” Dettlaff said, crossing over to her, gesturing toward the cards, “Let me show you some tips I’ve picked up.”

Regis was still watching them both very carefully. Dettlaff began to shuffle and deal, examining her hand and showing his, instructing her in some new methods and strategies. They all relaxed and Dettlaff continued the lesson, Fjola listening attentively with a smile. As he stood next to her and leaned over her shoulder, his warm breath tickled her face and suddenly she was reminded of the monster from that night, breathing on her as it had put a claw to her wrist.

Fjola stiffened, lost in thought. _Why does this seem so familiar?_ Her eyebrows knit down in contemplation as she tried with difficulty to recall the more detailed features of the beast.

Dettlaff continued with his explanation for a moment, but asked a question she did not respond to. He looked down at her and when he saw her expression, he mistook her puzzled frown for one of annoyance. He backed away from her quickly, his face fallen and contorted into a pained scowl. Suddenly he turned toward the staircase, heading out the door and into the rain before Fjola had even had a chance to react. She leapt up but he was already gone, her heart falling as she stood and watched the doorway he had just vanished through. _What just happened?_ she thought sadly. Regis quietly approached, putting a hand on her shoulder and leading her away toward the raised area above the entrance of the crypt.

“Here,” he said, “I’ll make up the bed for you.”

*

Dettlaff paced back and forth in the rain, alternating between hurt and fury, irritation and ambivalence.

_Why do I care so much?_ he thought. _She owes me nothing, and I nothing to her. So what if she gave us the apples I had gifted her? It probably wasn’t out of kindness anyway. Perhaps she did not want to carry them back with her._

His mouth curled into a sneer; he knew that wasn’t it at all, but was trying to convince himself. He did not want to befriend any more humans, ever again. It had never ended well for either party, and he was exhausted from the years of either loss or pain, in various and seemingly never-ending forms. It was easier to be secluded, even if it meant only Regis or some lesser vampires under his control for company. He breathed in deeply and released it as a sigh, water rolling down the back of his neck and soaking the shirt beneath his leather coat. He suddenly recalled the night he had rescued her, her simple _thank you_ and the small, soft stroke of her hand on his own, despite its monstrous form. His stomach squirmed uncomfortably and he bared his teeth in defeat.

Regis was right; he should try, promise or no promise.


	19. She Knows She Sounds Crazy

Fjola tossed and turned on the small bed Regis had insisted she take, despite her adamant opposition to him spending the night in one of the empty concrete alcoves where a coffin would normally lay. She had even threatened to spend the night on the floor herself.

“Please,” he had insisted, “I will sleep in that space regardless of where you decide to lay your head, so your sacrifice is unnecessary. I feel it would be best for your still-healing ribs, however, if you would rest on something softer, hm?”

Fjola had finally relented and laid on the bed, but found it no more restful than if she _had_ decided to sleep on the floor. Her thoughts turned to Dettlaff and why exactly he had fled – had she done something wrong? Was he tired of her? It seemed as though he didn’t even want her to be there in the first place, like her presence was offensive. She turned again on the bed, staring out at the open space of the crypt and dying fire in the center where just a few hours before she had been playing cards with Dettlaff and enjoying the evening. She closed her eyes and tried to force herself to sleep, but a sudden cool breeze blew through the crypt and she shivered, opening her eyes again to see the black-haired man coming through the entryway below her and sitting quietly on the bench in front of the fire. He took a metal rod and attempted to stoke it, but it was mostly just embers and he was forced to fetch more wood from the corner. Fjola shivered again – although the door had only been open for a brief moment as Dettlaff had entered, it seemed as though every bit of warm air had been sucked out of the crypt entirely.

Dettlaff tossed a small amount of wood back onto the fire, arranging it with no hurry despite how warm the embers must still be. Fjola sat up to watch him and he noticed, pulling his hand back and using more caution to stack the wood in the pit as the flames began to catch. Yearning desperately for the heat, she wrapped the blanket around herself and walked softly down the stairs from the stone platform, joining Dettlaff across the fire. It wasn’t her intent to impose, so she turned her face away from him and watched an area near the floor, instead, focusing on nothing in particular. Dettlaff was the first to speak.

“It will warm up soon,” he muttered, barely audible above the now-crackling fire.  
“Thanks,” she said, sounding a little hoarse and clearing her throat.

They were quiet for another minute or two as the warmth from the fire slowly started to spread and Fjola felt blessed relief from the cold of the crypt. She looked over at Dettlaff appreciatively, but he was hanging his head and did not notice her. She watched him for a moment as he breathed in and out, slowly, his eyebrows seemingly constantly furrowed and his thick black hair catching the light of the fire’s glow, illuminating the silver hairs at his temples attractively. His sculpted features cast beautiful shadows across his face and Fjola noticed with a small, confusing flutter that he was actually quite handsome. She was just pondering this when Dettlaff finally raised his eyes to her and she blushed, looking away again. Another silent moment passed before Fjola decided to address the discomfort between them.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you, Dettlaff,” she said softly. He gazed over at her, his eyebrows furrowing deeper. She continued unsteadily. “I’m… not sure what I said or did to make you leave, but whatever it was, I really am sorry. Truly.”

Dettlaff ran his hand back through his hair and breathed out heavily, then waved it dismissively.

“You’ve no reason to apologize,” he said with resign. “I thought I was annoying you with my lesson, but in truth, you were likely just scowling in concentration.” He looked into her eyes. “Yes?”

Fjola shook her head, and Dettlaff frowned again. She backpedaled a little bit.

“Of course I was concentrating on what you were saying,” she explained, “But to be honest I did get a little bit… distracted.”

Dettlaff’s stomach roiled uncomfortably.

“See, I…” she hesitated. _I don’t want to sound crazy…_ _b_ _ut here_ _it_ _goes._ “That night… the one where you and Regis helped me…” Dettlaff nodded and she continued. “Well, you said you found me at a bandit camp, passed out. I know you must have seen the bodies, but that wasn’t me, I swear it.”  
“We hadn’t thought it was,” he stated. Fjola nodded in appreciation.  
“The thing is, before you both got there, there was… someone… some _thing_ else that had already saved me from them.” Dettlaff seemed to stiffen. _Gods,_ she thought, _how_ _mental_ _do I sound right now?_ “I know this sounds… _unbelievable…_ but… there was this… thing, there.” Her face seemed to sour as though the word itself had a bitter taste. “I hate to describe it that way, but I really couldn’t see that clearly. But it was fast, impossibly fast, and huge. I can’t even begin to tell you how massive it seemed. It looked like it didn’t even have eyes, just a small nose and massive mouth full of fangs, and claws, and these huge wings and extra limbs…” she held her arms out for emphasis and suddenly blushed, realizing she looked foolish in _addition_ to sounding crazy. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I just… I don’t know what it was and it’s been torturing me ever since.”

Dettlaff seemed horrified but said slowly, sympathetically, “It sounds horrible.”

“No,” Fjola shook her head, “That’s just it. It was… _beautiful._ It saved me. I mean even though it looked terrifying, it… I never once felt like I was in danger.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “In fact,” she admitted softly, “I even felt… _safe._ Safer than I’ve ever felt in my _life_ _.”_ She sighed and shook her head. “I know I sound insane right now, but… it’s just how I feel. I’m sorry for burdening you with this, you must think I’m crazy,” she smiled apologetically. She gazed over at Dettlaff, expecting him to look confused or frightened, but instead he just looked sad.

“How is this related to your… _distraction_ earlier?” he asked cautiously. Fjola’s shoulders fell and she looked embarrassed again.  
“Please, don’t take this as an insult, because I genuinely don’t mean it as one, but… you reminded me of it, somehow.” Dettlaff’s eyes widened and he sat up stiffly. “When I could feel your breath against my cheek, it reminded me of when the… _monster_ did too,” she said, again making an unpleasant face at having to use a pejorative term to describe it. “It made me…” she blinked, looking away and turning scarlet. “...happy.” There was a pause. “Gods,” she laughed, “I’m so sorry.”  
Dettlaff shook his head. “Don’t be,” he said. “I… I believe you.”

Fjola’s head snapped up when he said this and she looked at him in sheer surprise.

“You do?”  
“Yes,” he said. “Monsters are no real rarity in this world, it is no surprise you came across one.”  
“But it _saved_ me. I felt safe around it. Does that mean it’s really a monster?”

He shook his head again, his voice hoarse as he responded, “Only if you think it is.”

Fjola’s face shifted from one of insecurity to confidence. She shook her head with a strong smile. “Not at all,” she said.

Dettlaff’s face actually broke into a wide, appreciative smile and he had a hard time keeping his mouth closed as he did so. Fjola got up and walked around the fire to join him on the bench. He allowed this, and did not shrink away from her presence as he had before. She smiled contentedly, mirroring Dettlaff.

“Thanks,” she said. “For not thinking I’m crazy.”  
“Thank you,” he returned, “For not assuming all monsters are evil.”

Fjola wasn’t sure what he meant by that but was satisfied enough to be enjoying his company once more. The two of them sat in silence until Dettlaff fell asleep first, Fjola covering him with the blanket before walking back upstairs and curling up on the bed, finally able to rest. In the corner, Regis smiled warmly to himself.


	20. Leaving

When Fjola rose, it was to find Regis and Dettlaff both gone, no note or hint of their whereabouts left behind. She walked to the crypt entrance, noticing the sun had already risen in the sky and the mist around the cemetery looked like it was made of transparent gold beneath its light. She soaked it in briefly, listening to a few birds chirp overhead before she suddenly heard voices. Realizing they belonged to Dettlaff and Regis, she walked out to greet them, their words carrying through the woods and over the tombstones.

“It’s not as though she _has_ to go back,” Dettlaff said, “You said so yourself. The Witcher will likely not even notice.”  
“Hm,” said Regis, relishing his friend’s contention, “This is rich. The man who didn’t want her around is suddenly begging me to make her stay!”  
“I am not begging,” Dettlaff argued, “I am simply pointing out that such a long walk at this hour would be fruitless. She might as well stay… at least until evening.”

Fjola’s heart lifted, then fell. She suddenly felt incredibly guilty for listening in, albeit accidentally, and cleared her throat loudly to announce her presence. Oddly enough, neither Regis nor Dettlaff seemed surprised at her arrival, and their expressions almost looked like they had been _expecting_ her.

“Sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”  
“No matter,” said Regis cheerfully, “We were only having a friendly debate over whether or not you should be escorted back to Corvo Bianco now, or this evening. Obviously you have final say in the matter, but, should you need to be swayed a little, keep in mind you could still get some working hours in if we were to leave right now.”  
“However,” Dettlaff butt in, glaring at Regis, “Even if we were to rush there, you would not have much time in which to work, so it might be more prudent to spend the day here and leisurely walk back in the evening. For your… health,” he stammered a little.

Fjola guiltily replied that she needed to go back now. “I don’t want my boss to think I’m lazy. Even if he _is_ friends with Regis. I’m sorry,” she finished, sounding genuinely apologetic. She had a hard time meeting Dettlaff’s gaze, especially as she heard him huff and walk back into the crypt.

“He’s not going to say goodbye?” she asked, stung.  
“It’s not that time yet,” Regis explained. “We shall be escorting you back… _most_ of the way.”  
“Most of the way?”  
“I can accompany you for the entire journey, not to worry, but Dettlaff must part with us before we get to Beauclair Port. He will not be able to walk with us to the door of Corvo Bianco.”  
“Is he wanted?” she asked, suddenly worried. Regis chuckled, shaking his head.  
“No, no, not really. At least, not anymore, technically,” he said with a wink, and Fjola was unsure whether or not he was joking. He continued, more seriously this time, “He had a hard enough time tolerating the presence of just _one_ other person besides me, despite what delightful company she is,” Fjola blushed, “So imagine the great unease he must feel in the middle of such large crowds and chaos.”

Fjola nodded, understanding completely. She remembered how active the temple was and how it was nearly impossible to get any time or space to oneself, even at night. Sometimes she had felt she would go mad if she was forced to interact with yet another traveler, priestess, or acolyte, or had to go through yet _another_ lesson at the crack of dawn, or bear the advances and gropes of healing soldiers who didn’t get the hint when she slapped their hands away. It was even worse when they became angered at her rejections...

“I get it,” she laughed. “And because of that, I can see more and more why the two of you prefer your crypt.”

Regis chuckled, and Fjola suddenly let out a light scoff.

“I remember being scared of this cemetery when I first came here,” she said.  
“Really?” asked Regis, feigning ignorance but remembering how she had shivered and held herself defensively when walking through it to quietly deliver their gifts. “Are you still?”  
“No,” she shook her head, “Not now. Now, it’s…” She let her eyes take in the trees around her, the peacefulness of the forest and soothing cover of mist. “...comforting,” she finished.

Regis gave an appreciative smile and Dettlaff suddenly emerged from the crypt, looking around cautiously and joining them for the walk back.


	21. Fighting Sisters

Syanna gazed out one of the windows of the tower she had isolated herself in, unable to enjoy the stunning view of the Duchy despite being able to see its rolling, flowered hills and fertile vineyards while being kept essentially a prisoner in the Beauclair Palace. She thought that her sister, being fickle and prone to emotional impulses, would eventually cool after they made up and she might be able to reclaim her birthright. This was not the case however, and Syanna suspected it was to keep Annarietta in power. Syanna wasn’t sure she cared about ruling the Duchy anymore or not – the people despised her for the chaos and destruction she inadvertently wrought thanks to her involvement with the Beast of Beauclair, not to mention the attempt on the Duchess’ life and her supposed “curse” from being born during the Black Sun – she mostly just wanted her freedom back.

She recalled with a wry smile her time as a bandit leader and her enjoyment running a vandaguild. She assumed that ruling a country would be similar and was practically desperate to do so again, but, even though she had not had the chance yet, realized that it wouldn’t be the same. The main reasons she enjoyed running the guild were their fear of her, obedience, loyalty, admiration, and the powerful strength that came from the combination of these. Were she to assume rule over the Duchy, however, she would not find these same attributes; the joy of ruling would be lost under the headaches of the everyday tasks and decisions she would be forced to make, as well as enduring the hate of the people. Annarietta had her advisors to rule things for her and simply got to lay back and bask in hedonism and frivolity – Syanna knew she would have no such luxury. No advisors would ever willingly help her rule, and indeed, would likely actively work against her. She had no problem spilling the blood of her opposition and oppressors, but it would probably become frustrating after a while when no more advisors would be available to her. She groaned in boredom and turned back away from her window to see her sister herself standing in the middle of her room, several armored guards standing casually in the doorway behind her.

“Sister, dear,” Anna started, “Why don’t you come down for breakfast? Surely you are hungry?”

Syanna sneered and turned away, crossing her arms and putting her leg out to the side obstinately.

“What does it matter? Do you plan on telling me what to eat now, as well?”  
“Guards, leave us,” Anna said shortly.

They hesitated, but followed orders, closing the heavy door behind them and doubtless standing outside of it. She approached her sister and tried to put her bejeweled hand on her shoulder, but was shrugged away gruffly.

“What is the matter?” Anna repeated. “Are you not happy? Has someone displeased you?” She suddenly looked angry. “Has someone abused you? Tell me their name!”

Syanna rolled her eyes furiously.

“Stop acting like my protector!” she snapped. “I am not a child!”  
Annarietta’s face softened slightly. “I know,” she said, “But I still worry about you.”  
“Like you did all those years I was missing?”  
“I told you I had always worried!” she shouted. “I did everything I could to find you, to assuage our parents’ wrath! How long are you going to hold this against me?”  
“When I have my freedom,” Syanna calmly explained, “You may have my forgiveness.”  
“Out of the question!” Anna was fuming again. “Syanna, I have already explained countless times how much danger you would be in were you to leave the palace.”  
“I thought your subjects adored you?” she challenged airily. “Surely they would follow your orders not to allow me to come to any harm?”  
“I may be beloved but I am not all-powerful,” she admitted without malice. “Syanna, dear, I promise you, this is for your own good.”

With that, she turned and left, the guards closing the door behind her again and standing outside, leaving Syanna to ponder how much evil had befallen her throughout her life under the guise of good intentions.


	22. The Walk to the Port

Dettlaff, Regis and Fjola walked towards Beauclair more slowly than they had intended, enjoying the conversation and warm sunshine before autumn officially began. The moisture from the rainstorm the day prior was evaporating quickly in the heat and sun, but a few deep puddles remained in some rutted parts of the road, Fjola being careful to lift her skirt each time she hopped over one to avoid getting muddy. Regis continued the conversation.

“...And so, I… _departed_ from Geralt’s company rather abruptly after my… _injury…”_ he said carefully, Dettlaff raising an eyebrow at how he tiptoed around the real details, “Dettlaff found me in that castle soon after, helping me recover from my rather catastrophic wounds for quite a long time before we parted ways, temporarily. He took much time and made much effort at his own expense to help me,” Regis said, meeting his friend’s eyes and showing genuine gratitude, “For which I will always feel eternally indebted. Or, well, at least until I save him, in return,” he said with a chuckle.

“But Geralt just left you like that? Injured and possibly dying?” she asked incredulously. She sounded horrified.  
“He thought I was dead, my dear,” Regis explained. “And there were much more pressing matters at hand.”

Fjola didn’t look convinced but decided to let it go. She did not want to harbor ill will towards her employer, not to mention that were she in the same situation, she wasn’t sure how she would react, either. Still, she kept it in her mind to be wary of the Witcher. No wonder Dettlaff didn’t seem particularly fond of him or the discussion.

“I do not wish to have my ego stroked,” he said, “Regis, please change the subject.”  
“What do you suggest we discuss, then? Politics, religion, money?” he jested.  
Fjola laughed and said, “Dettlaff, Regis said you used to live in Nazair. What’s it like?”

Dettlaff smiled warmly, a sight Fjola still wasn’t used to yet. “Hmm, it is quite beautiful, especially where the land borders the Great Sea, as well as Lake Muredach and the castle there, Rhys-Rhun, despite it being abandoned. Azure roses are cultivated there, I’m sure you know. When you visit an affluent area, there are rows of shrubs of brilliant blue blooms with the faintest blush of purple at the tips…” He was lost in thought for moment.

“Are you homesick?” she asked.  
“Perhaps a little,” he said sadly.

This admission surprised Regis – he had never expressed such a thing before, not even _hinted_ at it. Fjola reached over and placed her hand on Dettlaff’s arm briefly.

“I would be, too,” she said. “It sounds wonderful.”  
“Hm. I think you would like it,” he said, “The meals are rich, and even somewhat inland you can breathe in the salt from the sea air and hear the waves thrusting against the stony coast. I expect you miss the sea.”  
“Why do you say that?”  
“I can hear the Skelligan in your voice, sometimes. Such as when you scoff, or sometimes how you pronounce your ‘os,’” he said with a smile. “Also, when the sunlight hits your eyes, there are flecks of green amidst the brown – that seems somewhat common with Skelligers.”

Fjola wasn’t sure she had even noticed that herself. Then again, she didn’t inspect her reflection very often.

“Thank you,” she said hesitantly. She wasn’t sure he was complimenting her, exactly, but still wanted to be polite. She found she was enjoying his company more than she expected, especially as she was pleasantly surprised by how kind he actually was. Perhaps they just needed to get to know each other better, or maybe he was just painfully shy. She couldn’t fault him for that. He nodded at her thanks and they kept moving until they reached a sizable rut not far from the port. It was too long to jump over, so Fjola made to go around, through the tall grass. Dettlaff, however, suddenly stepped directly into it, the mud up past the ankle of his boot, and held his long-fingered hand out for her to take. Stunned, she just stood there for a moment, staring at him uncertainly. He extended his hand further, palm-up, and Fjola took it hesitantly. With no effort at all, Dettlaff used his hands to help her stay aloft as she leapt over the puddle, extricating himself after and continuing as though one of his boots wasn’t covered several inches up in thick mud. Fjola thanked him again and he simply nodded briefly as usual, Regis smirking oddly as he walked beside them. Dettlaff returned to talking about Nazair, Regis interjecting with a fact or observation here and there, and Fjola listened politely, genuinely wishing she could see it someday.

“Perhaps one day you will,” Dettlaff said.  
“I’d like that,” she said.

Suddenly Dettlaff’s face darkened as Beauclair Port loomed in front of them and stopped, giving a small, polite bow in Fjola’s direction.

“I hope to see you again soon,” he said, his voice seemingly a tad lighter than normal.

Fjola beamed and nodded, and with that, he turned and began walking back toward the cemetery. Regis took her arm in his softly and she turned back to him, the two of them continuing on the road ahead. Fjola looked back for just the quickest of moments, but Dettlaff was already gone.


	23. Regis Asks Geralt Another Favor

Geralt watched as Regis escorted his most recent worker up the road towards the vineyard, the early afternoon sun above overly warm and bothersome. Annoyed, he leaned over the balustrade, catching Regis’ eye from afar. The vampire bowed to his companion, who immediately started her work, and resumed his journey up the path to his friend. Regis started talking before Geralt could say a word.

“You likely didn’t even know she was still gone until you saw me escorting her back,” he said defensively.  
“I saw you leave with her _yesterday,”_ Geralt stated, his voice curious. Suddenly he lifted an eyebrow and smirked. “Have a good night?”

Regis looked back at him and his eyebrows furrowed. “I may be, er, _active,_ but I am not a cad, Geralt.”

Geralt’s smirk widened and his eyebrows rose a little more.

“Last I remember, you were able to keep even a _succubus_ from prowling,” he laughed. “Is _active_ how you describe it?”  
“And as I recall, you profited quite well from that relationship,” he said, shooting a look, “As for your young worker and I, well, we merely got caught in the rain,” Regis explained, still defensive. “We decided to sleep in the crypt. _Separately.”  
_ “Uh-huh.”

Regis looked irritated for a moment, but realized Geralt was teasing him and decided it was far better than him being angry with him for keeping one of his employees away for so long. He waved his hand and shook his head, deciding to change the tone.

“Well, at least she met Dettlaff,” he said. “Officially.”

Geralt’s expression suddenly changed to one of deep interest.

“And?”  
“And as you can see, she’s still here,” the vampire smiled, gesturing to the vineyards.  
“You mean Dettlaff didn’t try to stick his claws in her stomach? That’s surprising.”  
“You knew the circumstances behind his actions then,” Regis said, miffed.  
“Circumstances? Regis, he tried to...”  
“I was not defending those decisions, merely saying there was a cause. Fjola has given him no such grief or cruelty.”  
“That her name?”  
“I take it you don’t trouble yourself with the lesser people now?” Regis said, holding back a bit of scorn.  
“I told you, Barnabas-Basil handles all that. You know I don’t actually like running things,” Geralt replied.  
“Still on the Path?” Regis asked politely.  
“Mentally, yeah. Yen’s got it in her head that this is it, we’ve retired. But neither of us have, really. She still works, and I’ll occasionally take a contract.”  
“When she’s gone, naturally.”  
“Naturally,” Geralt laughed.  
“Is she here now? I’d very much like to say hello.”

Geralt shook his head and Regis _tsked._ The conversation stagnated a bit as they both took in the scenery, the comfortable silence that spoke of years of friendship between them settling in.

“Aren’t you going to inquire what’s next?” Regis pried.  
“No,” Geralt said.  
“I take it keeping her from the vineyard is not going to egregiously decimate the profits or productivity of Corvo Bianco?”  
“No,” Geralt said slowly. “Why?”  
“You stated you had very little to absolutely no interest at all in my future endeavors,” Regis said humorously. “Have you suddenly changed your mind?”  
“Fine. I’ll bite.”  
“The two of them seem to be getting along splendidly,” he said cryptically.  
“Regis…”  
“I haven’t seen Dettlaff in so truly pleasant a mood in, oh, I can’t recall when. Then again, we only reconnected shortly after his mate had left him and he was in the midst of healing me, then after that he was being blackmailed and manipulated by that she-spawn Syanna, next was our time in exile, flitting about from one nearly inhospitable place to the next. It’s no wonder he feels reprieve now. I don’t think Dettlaff has had any true happiness since he was with his last lover… And even now those memories are forever tainted by her ghastly behavior.”  
“ _Last_ lover?”

Regis shook his head.

“Not to worry,” he said, “I doubt very much Dettlaff would ever take another human female for a mate. What I mean by the conversation is that he seems genuinely happy for the first time in recent memory. Perhaps finding companionship other than me is the real key, here,” he laughed. “Like most effective medicines, I know I can be hard to swallow in large doses.”

Geralt smiled weakly, waiting for Regis to get to the point.

“I assume you’re waiting for me to ask yet another favor, my friend?”  
“If you suggest staying in my cellar…”  
“I suppose that’s still out, isn’t it?” Regis laughed. “No, I was going to suggest – should you care to release her – that perhaps I could hire her to ah, _help_ me, as well.”  
“That sounded like a euphemism.”  
“Don’t be crude. What I mean is, she has training in herbalism and alchemy, though she stated she has been out of practice for some time. Still, it’s a decent enough excuse to get her to spend more time at the crypt.”  
“Fine,” Geralt said automatically, surprising Regis.  
“Aren’t you going to ask for how long, or what days?”  
“No,” Geralt replied. “I barely even need her as it is, I only hired her as a favor to you.”

Regis pondered for a moment.

“I figured our debt had been settled long ago, Geralt. This isn’t your way of trying to repay me for saving your beloved sorceress’ life, is it? Your efforts in helping me with Dettlaff…”  
“That’s not it, Regis.”  
“Then may I ask why?”  
“You’re asking me for the reason why I’m helping you?”  
“And helping Dettlaff,” Regis said. Geralt scoffed a little.  
“You said it yourself – I have a kind heart,” he said, but it sounded mocking. The vampire raised an eyebrow. Geralt relented and said, “Alright – since Yen assumes I’ve ‘retired,’ I’d rather not have to go out and hunt down a higher vampire. Especially one that would probably kill me. If this helps you to keep him under control, I’m all for it.”  
“This isn’t about controlling him,” Regis explained, “It’s about him learning to control himself. His urges, his anger, his impulses.”  
“And subjecting the gi… Fjola… to that, you still think that’s the best method?”  
“I do,” Regis stated confidently, nodding his head once for emphasis.  
Geralt shrugged. “Then be my guest. Just let me ask you one thing.”  
“Yes?”  
“Why didn’t you just hire her from the start? Why bother making me do it first?”

Regis gave his small, characteristic chuckle. “Well for starters I didn’t know about her talents until last night, over a week after you hired her. Also, even if I _had_ known, I did not want her to think I was offering out of charity. Seems rather bashful about it, I’m afraid. And third…” he hesitated.

Geralt raised an eyebrow and cocked his head expectantly.

“…Dettlaff,” was all Regis said, smiling a little sadly as he walked out the door to give his offer to Fjola, who practically leapt in joy and assented immediately.


	24. Syanna Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I know this is a very short one, that’s why I’m uploading two chapters at once. I kept them separate for narrative reasons.)

Syanna had been trying to befriend some of the knights and guards who were constantly in and out of the palace, either through charm, flattery, or sheer bribery, but none of it had worked. They were all frustratingly allegiant to Duchess Anna Henrietta, and Syanna found herself at a loss.

_It figures that_ now _knights are chivalrous and loyal. Were they so when I was young._

Compounding her fury was the fact that her sister had given her the unfair impression that things would be better from the time they made up, but Syanna had only found isolation, boredom, and powerlessness.

_I should have remembered not to believe in fairy tales._

Looking out over her balcony yet again, she imagined ways to escape and how they would fail. She could not gain access to anyone who could smuggle her out, there was not enough cloth in the entire palace to be able to make a rope (and  not enough gold to convince her to try), the trellises were laughably far below her,  none of her charms had met with success, and to top it all off, there were guards and knights positively  _everywhere._ There was simply no way she could escape unnoticed – not without help.  A new thought occurred to her.

_Then I_ won’t  _go unnoticed. I’ll do what I have always done to protect myself – fight. In whatever way possible._


	25. Stay

Fjola had been helping Regis as his unofficial apprentice for weeks now, and she found it harder and harder to make the daily walks to and from Corvo Bianco to Mère-Lachaiselongue Cemetery every few days. The weather of mid-October had gotten colder than expected, which was bad enough, but had also threatened the last crops of grapes, meaning she had to work much harder at the vineyard to avoid them being damaged or going to waste. Not only that, but the days were getting shorter and shorter, and Fjola did _not_ feel comfortable walking at night.

She adored her time with Regis and Dettlaff, and her training in herbalism and alchemy was coming back to her quicker than she had expected. When not working with Regis, she would frequently play cards with Dettlaff, or the three of them would take walks and gather herbs, never straying too close to Beauclair itself or other people. Most of the time though, it was her and Dettlaff gathering ingredients while Regis brewed potions to sell or worked on his mandrake moonshine, the two of them talking about anything and everything. Sometimes, even long after the herbs, plants, and other items were gathered, Fjola and Dettlaff would relax on a stump or fallen log to read, his arm about her as they discussed a book together. Other times they would just sit and watch the river in silence before returning to the cemetery, Fjola often leaning on him for warmth in the autumn chill, feeling as though she was on fire when she was near him. It seemed as though Dettlaff never wanted to return to the crypt, and she felt sorry for him. She wondered if he was simply using her as an excuse to escape a little bit, but couldn’t find it in her heart to complain, as she enjoyed their time together so much it didn’t really matter to her what his reasoning was. All she cared about was that they both loved it on some level, and that was good enough for her – the burning in her stomach and chest could wait.

Some days though, it felt as though she only got about 10 minutes with them before she had to turn around and go back. She had stubbornly avoided spending the night there again, realizing there were three of them and only one small bed. While she wouldn’t have minded sharing, it was simply a matter of space. Neither of them would hear of her sleeping on the floor or bench, either, and she felt horrendously guilty thinking of them doing the same, so she would always leave well before dusk, much to their dismay. While they didn’t mention it out loud, they knew the other felt the same – the air was lighter and the conversation better when Fjola was visiting. Not to mention the food.

“Mmph, you are getting better every time you very generously make a meal for us,” Regis said.  
“Generous? You buy all of the ingredients,” she shot back, smiling. “But thank you.”  
“But the labor of it all…” he tried to continue, but Fjola shushed him and tucked away the last bits of the roasted chicken she had made.  
“Thank you, again,” Dettlaff said, cleaning his plate delicately.

Regis leaned back in his chair and rubbed his stomach in an undignified manner, making Fjola laugh and even Dettlaff crack a wry smile. As usual he rose to take care of the dishes, heading outside to get water from the river and leaving Dettlaff and Fjola sitting across from each other at the small table not far from the fire. He shifted, reaching into a pocket of his black leather coat and retrieving a small package wrapped in cloth and handing it to her. Surprised, she stared at the gift in his hand for a moment, her eyes flicking between it and his face. He frowned a little and shoved it forward a bit more, Fjola finally coming to her senses and taking it with her thanks and gently undoing the wrapping. Inside the package was a brand new deck of cards, painted humbly but beautifully. Fjola was at a loss for words.

“Care for a game?” he asked simply. Fjola nodded, her throat tight, and he dealt each of them a standard hand.

They played several rounds, with Fjola finally having gotten good enough to beat him a couple of times.

“HA!” she exclaimed, laying her hand out. “I finally beat you twice in one night!”  
“Hm, perhaps I should stop giving you lessons,” he said.  
“Don’t you dare,” she joked. “Someday I’m going to make you bet something precious and I’ll sweep it up from you.”  
“Something precious?” Dettlaff asked, furrowing his brows in thought.  
“Yes, you know, something expensive, or something you love. I was only kidding anyway, I’d never.”  
“I have very few precious things,” he said seriously. “Only people.”

Fjola’s heart leapt. _Regis,_ she thought, _He means Regis._ She looked back up at him to smile but saw that his gaze had become quite intense. Unable to look away, she groped forward clumsily to pick up the cards and instead brushed his hand. He instinctively reached up and caught it, not taking his eyes off of her for a moment. All the blood rushed towards Fjola’s face, but she did not remove her hand. Instead, dreamily, she started tracing the outlines of his fingerless gloves and examining his long nails, lost in thought.

“Dettlaff?” she asked.  
“Yes?”

She looked back up into his icy blue eyes, holding his gaze for a moment before looking outside to check the position of the sun. It was already getting dark and her heart and face both fell. Dettlaff leaned forward slightly.

“You don’t have to go,” he whispered. “Not if you don’t want to.”  
“I have to,” she said sadly.

Dettlaff looked pained for a moment before releasing her hand and standing, politely grabbing her cloak from where it hung on the wall.

“I shall escort you,” he said.  
“Thanks,” she managed, rising and, on his insistence, allowing him to put her cloak on her.

They walked out of the crypt slowly, as though savoring every step. Regis approached, clean dishes in hand, and made an unhappy face.

“Is it that time again already?” he asked, looking toward the quickly darkening sky.

Dettlaff merely grunted. Regis gave a small, polite bow to Fjola and slid back into their underground chamber, shutting the door behind him. She and Dettlaff started heading out, the sound of crunching leaves the only noise between them for several minutes before Fjola suddenly felt a cold breeze and shivered. Dettlaff was immediately close beside her, removing his leather coat and placing it over her shoulders. She tried to refuse but he held the coat on her firmly with a playful smile and she giggled, realizing he would not let it go. He allowed her to turn towards him however, his hands still on either side of her neck, and she stepped a little closer, her fingers clasped together in front of her for warmth. They had stopped.

Dettlaff saw her frigid hands and brought his own down, covering hers easily with his long, warm fingers. Fjola watched as he brought his mouth down and blew hot air onto her balled fists to heat them, finally looking back up at her after the third breath. She stepped closer to him again, and he returned the gesture, their bodies almost touching. Fjola looked back up into his mournful eyes and felt herself ache with sorrow.

“I don’t want to go back,” she whispered, looking down.

Dettlaff made a small noise before wrapping her up in his arms and holding her to his chest, placing his cheek on top of her head and instinctively kissing it gently. It was as if his lips touching her spread a fire down her body; suddenly she had wrapped her arms around his back and intertwined her legs with his, her cheek nuzzling into the cool fabric of his shirt as she let out a shaky sigh. Dettlaff brought his hand below her chin, one of his claws scratching her cheek very slightly, bringing her gaze up to meet his own. He studied her face carefully before haltingly leaning forward, his lips meeting hers after an agonizingly hesitant moment. She breathed in deeply, bringing one of her hands to his thick, black hair and returning his kiss voraciously. Dettlaff actually _grunted_ as he held her tighter, the two of them matching each others’ fervor. When she felt his tongue in her mouth she moaned and he parted from her briefly, almost panting, his hands clutching her face and his forehead against hers.

“ _Stay,”_ he begged.

Fjola could only nod feverishly, clutching him again and kissing him deeply.  Dettlaff brought her back to the crypt,  Regis conveniently absent as they ran up the stairs, tossing their clothes and finally giving in to what had been building between them for weeks. Afterwards, they curled up under the blankets and she slept while he played with her hair gently and ran his fingers down her sides. She whimpered in her  sleep and he held her closely, utterly content  for the first time in years,  finally succumbing to sleep  himself with a smile on his face.


	26. Manipulation, Syanna's Strong Suit

Syanna, flanked by guards as always, walked to the rose garden outside the palace where her sister usually was. She had dressed especially nice today in a blue gown, her hair which she had let grow out past her shoulders was curled and adorned tastefully with a jeweled comb, and she put on an air of contrition as she approached Anna Henrietta.

“Sister, dear, to what do I owe this pleasure?” she asked as she stood up from her seat at an ornate café table and hugged Syanna. She gestured for her to sit, and she did, smiling stiffly. “Leave us,” Annarietta snapped at the guards, and they followed orders with a sideways glance at the older sister. When the two of them were alone at the table, Syanna finally spoke.

“Anna,” she said humbly, “I have been thinking. Perhaps I _have_ been too hard on you. I’ve been cold and callous, despite everything you have been trying to do for me.” She appeared to struggle for a moment. “I am sorry.”  
“Syanna, never, my darling,” she said, hugging her as best she could across the table. “I know my protections are too strict, I know this, and yet I put them in place anyway.”  
“I understand you are trying to help,” Syanna said, trying to sound sincere without overselling it. “I must admit, I’ve… been resentful.”  
“Ach,” Anna lamented, putting her long fingers against her temple in angst. “It is no wonder. Kept to the palace grounds, little company besides guards or myself…”  
“I know I’ve been cruel,” Syanna said, and Anna gave her a slightly appraising look.

_Careful,_ she reminded herself, _a gentle touch._ She gave her characteristic frown and crossed her arms and Anna relaxed somewhat, though still looked concerned.

“But my cruelty was in response to your own,” she said in honest anger. “It’s true, I am tired of the guards, the seclusion, the constant judgment. I am not meant to be kept in a cage!”  
“I know,” the Duchess moaned, “I know. But I cannot help myself. I cannot lose you again.”  
“And yet you want the same thing as I.”  
“And what do you suppose I want?”  
“My sister back,” she said, scooting her chair closer and putting her hands on Anna’s. “But I suppose I was foolish to believe things would go back to how they used to be when we were children.”  
“We still fought as children,” Anna laughed. “Do you remember the time when mother bought me a new comb and you cut off all my hair so that I couldn’t use it?”

Syanna gave a weak smile and pretended to laugh, as well, but the memory of the pain she felt made it hollow. Her parents had bought Anna Henrietta the jeweled adornment from their trip to Nilfgaard, but to Syanna, they had brought nothing. Not even a terrible gift, not even something lame but practical like a book or even a wooden duck. Just… nothing. She forced a bit more laughter until Anna Henrietta stopped.

“Ah, but here we still are. My dear sister. Whatever shall we do with one another?”  
“All I ask is for a little more freedom,” she pleaded. “Or, if not that, something to _do._ I am tired of going back and forth from my window to the library through the gardens to… ugh. I cannot even _talk_ about my days anymore.”  
“I understand,” said Anna sympathetically, “But what am I to do? Half the Duchy still calls for your head and the other half would rather just see you imprisoned. Or tortured.”  
“I am already imprisoned,” Syanna snapped.  
“What would you have me do?” Anna said, throwing up her hands. “I cannot let you leave the grounds. Not even unsupervised. An arrow pierces more quickly than a shield can block it.”  
“Then at least, spend more time with me,” she said. “Or give me something to do. Education of some sort, or, a project,” she hinted, trying to leave breadcrumbs for her sister to follow.  
“A project? We have laborers and masters for such work.”  
“Then something… fun! Something bright and cheerful, to break up this gloom. Before winter approaches,” Syanna pushed. _Come on, come on…_ she urged internally.  
“Ah, yes, winter solstice is only two months away. I cannot believe that Yule is just right around the corner,” Anna said contemplatively.  
“Hm,” Syanna sighed with nostalgia. “Do you recall the feasts that mother and father used to throw? The rich dinners and incredible wine, the fires and games and all of the handsome men…”  
Anna giggled. “Oh, yes, the men I remember quite fondly. Ah, it’s been forever since we’ve had a feast,” she whined. “I miss the frivolity.”  
“And hedonism,” Syanna giggled.  
“And the fun we had,” Anna replied, rubbing her sister’s hand and suddenly seeming to come to a conclusion. “Perhaps it _is_ time for another one,” she said carefully.

_Finally!_ Syanna thought.

“In two months’ time? How could you ever manage it?”  
“But that’s just it, Syanna! You wanted a project, and here it is, I’ve given you one!”  
Syanna pretended to look shocked. “But all that it will require! The planning, the invitations, the preparations! I don’t think I could handle such a task!”  
“You can and will!” Anna said, standing dramatically and pointing her finger up. “From now until the Feast of Yule, you shall help plan all of the festivities!”

She sat back down with a victorious grin.

“Does that make you happy, sister dear?”  
“Oh Anna, thank you! Thank you my loving sister!” Syanna reached over and embraced her, smiling genuinely.

_A feast is not the only thing I shall be planning,_ she thought, calculating all the ways in her head she could possibly make the night go the way she wanted. _Finally, my escape is at hand._


	27. Emiel Regis, Homeowner

Geralt eyed Regis carefully as they sat inside at the table, Regis with a hot mug of tea in front of him, smelling it deeply and sighing in pleasure.

“Mmm, bergamot, lavender, and…” he sniffed again. “Hm, cornflower? A rather unique blend. I like it very much.”  
“Mhmm. So you didn’t tell me why you needed to stay here last night.”  
“I did,” Regis replied sternly. “I told you that I came to let you know Fjola would not be back, as it was too dark to travel.”  
“Uh huh. That much I got. But why did you decide to _stay here?_ Last I knew, you could travel in the dark yourself no problem.”  
“I was tired,” Regis lied, sipping his tea.  
“You know I can usually tell when you’re full of shit.”  
“Does it matter?” Regis said it so calmly, so matter-of-factly, that for a moment Geralt was truly stunned.  
“Hm. I guess not.”  
“Then you needn’t concern yourself.”

Geralt took a small breath. He didn’t want to pry. _Truly._ But he was still concerned.

“You felt confident leaving her with Dettlaff?”

To Geralt’s surprise, Regis suddenly grinned, not meeting his eyes.

“Very,” he said, taking another sip of tea, oddly taciturn.

Geralt merely hummed. Regis looked at his friend and appeared to be calculating something. He was silent for a few more minutes as he finished his tea, deep in thought.

“I want Dettlaff and I to potentially live closer to here,” he suddenly said. Geralt’s stomach dropped.  
“Now you really are out of your mind.”  
“Not so, my friend; I obviously don’t plan on us inhabiting any easily-frequented or conspicuous dwelling, but rather something like a…”  
“Cave.”  
“No, perhaps a cottage, or a cabin. Do you recall the one I had in Sodden?”  
“I barely remember anything about that night, thanks to your moonshine.”

Regis chuckled and said, “I’ve seen a fair amount of small homesteads have sprung up here and there, quite pleasant and pleasurable places, and decently far enough away from the main roads and towns.” Geralt just kept staring at him. “However,” Regis said haltingly, “I doubt ones such as ourselves – that is to say, Dettlaff and I – would be welcome to buy any of these dwellings.”  
“What are you getting at?”

Geralt knew full well what he was trying to ask, but was desperately hoping he didn’t really mean it or that it was a terrible joke.

“Should Dettlaff or myself put the cottage in our names, I doubt very much that we would be welcomed with open arms by the Duchess.”  
“So lie on the forms,” he said, getting annoyed.  
“An established line of credit must exist, even if one is paying up-front with coin. Not to mention we’d need some form of paper recommendation or identification.” He sighed, scowling. “The bureaucracy of Beauclair is maddening.”  
“Tell me about it,” Geralt said, “You have no idea the hoops I had to jump through at the Cianfanelli bank just to get 300 lousy florens that were owed to me from years ago.”  
“So then you understand and are in agreement.”  
“What? With what?”  
“Dettlaff and I shall pay you the coin up-front for a cottage of our choosing, while you buy it in your name to avoid suspicion.”  
“I already own Corvo Bianco,” Geralt argued. “Buying a cement shack in the middle of nowhere is definitely suspicious, Regis.”  
“Not if it’s close by. You could call it a guest home, if you will, or, should any nosy paper-pushers ask, simply say you are expanding.”  
“And you intend to let her stay there, I take it? Gonna play house?” he asked sarcastically.  
“That’s a gross over-exaggeration,” Regis said. “I am ready for no such commitments. Nor is Dettlaff. I simply feel that residing in an area more accessible than Mère-Lachaiselongue would be of greater benefit.”  
“Uh-huh. Well, if you’re worried about the commute, I’ll let her go, and she can work with you full-time. Harvest season is just about over, after that I really wouldn’t need her until spring, if at all; I barely need her now. She can spend the winter with you.”  
“That’s just it, Geralt, I’m concerned about the winter.” The Witcher lowered his eyebrows and gave his vampire friend a questioning glance. Regis continued explaining. “The crypt will hardly be tolerable even to Dettlaff and myself come the ice and snow; it is no place for the young lady. The draft is staggering and there is little access to food or fresh water. None of us will want to be making trips all the way to Francollarts or Beauclair to shop, not from the cemetery. Something a tad closer and actually made for the _living_ such as us to inhabit would be much more convenient.”  
“I thought you shied away from Beauclair?” he asked.  
“Mm, for the most part, though mainly just away from the palace. I’m unsure of the Duchess’ feelings toward me, especially as I was not included in the ceremony she threw for you to receive your medal and honors.” He sounded a bit snide.  
“Regis,” Geralt said, “What happened was…”  
“Don’t trouble yourself,” he said bluntly. “I am not offended, and truthfully, the farce made me ill.”  
“I’m sorry,” the Witcher said genuinely. Regis shrugged.  
“Bygones.”  
“Look, if it’s really something you want, I suppose I could look into it. I owe you a lifetime’s worth of favors.”  
“And so do I in return. But, as I’m in a bind, I suppose it’s my turn to accept your assistance this time.”

He smiled and Geralt felt a bit better about the situation.

“How soon are you going to start looking?”  
“Well, about that,” Regis said, pulling a paper from his jerkin, “I had already found a suitable dwelling. Tell me what you think.”

Geralt smirked and looked at the form and the artistic rendering of the home upon it.

“Two floors _and_ a cellar?” he said, raising an eyebrow mockingly. “Someone’s got expensive taste.”

Regis frowned slightly and gave his friend an annoyed glance. Geralt decided not to tease him.

“It is nice,” he admitted. “Think Dettlaff will go for it?”  
“He’ll have no choice,” Regis said, leaning back.  
“No offense Regis, but I don’t think he’ll be easily intimidated.”  
“I do not intend to intimidate or to threaten him,” he explained shortly, “Merely coerce.”

Geralt was beginning to get frustrated. _Why is he only withholding when I_ actually _want to know something?_ He didn’t want to pry anyway, but still had his doubts about the other, less civilized vampire. The last thing he wanted was him stalking near his home. Near Yen.

“Spit it out, Regis.”  
“Hm.” He looked back to his friend, tapping his sharp nails on the table and considering for a moment. “If I move closer to Corvo Bianco and bring my work with me, Fjola will have no choice but to follow me there. Dettlaff, if he wants to see her, will have to come, too, or put up with extremely limited visits, the latter of which is not something I believe he will be willing to tolerate.”

Geralt was almost speechless and he was suddenly _more_ than just concerned. _Fjola and… Dettlaff?_

“You’re kidding?” he blurted.  
“I am not,” Regis said, shaking his head and looking back up to meet his friend’s eyes. He refused to elaborate further, but Geralt didn’t need any more explaining. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to think about it. He sighed heavily.  
“Fuck.”

Regis merely kept staring at his friend, his expression dark and serious, but expectant.

“Fine,” Geralt said. “I’ll help you. But good luck with _that.”_

Regis finally smiled again.

“So, we are in agreement?”  
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… yeah.”

They shook hands and Regis finally stood, stretching and walking towards the door.

“I think I’ve given them enough time,” he muttered, then turned back to Geralt. “Thank you again, my friend. I’ll have your money for you soon.”

Geralt tipped his head and Regis left, heading back to the cemetery with a bounce in his step. The Witcher shook his head again.

_Fuck._


	28. Trouble

Dettlaff pressed his nose gently into Fjola’s neck from behind her, taking in her scent, which closely resembled peaches and orchids. _Perhaps it is from the grapes,_ _herbs, and_ _flowers she is always picking,_ he thought, kissing her hair. She murmured and shifted, opening her eyes and, realizing where she was, smiled and pushed herself back into Dettlaff. He wrapped his arms around her more tightly, kissing her neck and shoulders.

“Hmm,” he sighed.  
“Gods,” Fjola whispered, “I’m so happy.”

Dettlaff stopped his affections for a moment and turned her face towards his own.

“Do you truly mean that?”  
“Of course,” she said, smiling and kissing him.

He let out a jagged sigh and she frowned a bit, turning towards him and putting her hands on either side of his face, her thumbs tracing his defined cheekbones and grazing his seemingly permanent stubble. He closed his eyes and just enjoyed her touch, emitting a sigh of contentment that sounded almost like a growl. Fjola giggled, but tried to hide it.

“What?” Dettlaff asked. She shook her head, still trying to cover her grin. He started smiling himself and repeated the question. “What?”  
“You kind of…” she stifled a laugh again before meeting his gaze. “You reminded me of a bear.”  
“A bear?” he asked incredulously.  
“It’s not an insult, Dettlaff, I swear! It’s just that… with your long fingernails, and your sharp teeth, and the way you kind of growled just now…”

She shrugged. Suddenly his smile faded and he examined his hands. A bitter memory swam to the surface of his mind.

“ _By the gods, Dettlaff, trim your nails. It makes my skin crawl when you scratch me with them.”  
_ “ _It is not on purpose, Syanna. You know what I am – I cannot control this.”  
_ “ _Trim them or stop touching me altogether; it’s your choice.”_

_Dettlaff had trimmed them as she had asked, but they regrew almost instantly and she looked at him in disappointment and disgust, he recalled with shame. After that she had shied away from his touch almost completely and very rarely allowed him to be intimate with her. He had never blamed Syanna, only himself._

“Dettlaff? What’s wrong?” The concern in Fjola’s voice brought him back to the present. He stroked her face lovingly and she pushed her face into his hand contentedly.  
“Sorry about the bear remark,” she said, a little sadly. “I honestly just meant that it was cute.”  
“ _Cute?”_ He made a face and Fjola started giggling again.

He immediately resumed kissing her every place he could reach, his hands filling themselves with her as they roamed, her doing the same with him. Her tongue slid across his sharp teeth and suddenly he pulled away with a small hiss. She looked hurt for a moment, but Dettlaff ran his hands through her hair and kissed her forehead.

“Forgive me,” he asked.  
“For what?”

_I should tell her now,_ he thought. _Before this goes any further._

“For my claws,” he said, “And my… fangs.”  
“Oh Dettlaff, they’re not fangs,” she said offhandedly, kissing his cheeks. “Besides, Regis has sharp nails and teeth, too. So what? I think they’re…”  
“Don’t say it again,” he groaned. Fjola giggled.  
“… _adorable,”_ she said.  
“Hmm,” he growled again. She kissed him deeply and his heart ached.

_Tell her now,_ his mind urged. _She should know what you are._ He knew he should tell her, that he _needed_ to tell her, but the thought of her becoming frightened and fleeing was too much for him to bear. The agony at the thought of losing her already burned him from the inside out, and he clutched her tighter in response, digging his nose into the warm spot where her neck met her shoulder and inhaling deeply.

“Fjola,” he started.  
“Yes?”  
“I… I am…” he was fumbling over his words, unsure of how to get it out.

He remembered her saying that she hadn’t been afraid that night, that the beast she had seen had made her feel safe, but Dettlaff knew that accepting the presence of a monster was a different thing _entirely_ from welcoming one as a lover. _I need to just tell her. I am a vampire. A monster. The monster she saw that night I saved her. I will tell her. I_ must _tell her._ Instead, Dettlaff only squeezed Fjola back, cursing himself for not revealing the truth about what he was yet, but overwhelmed with fear, frantic he would lose the happiness he felt in that moment.

_I just need a little more time,_ he thought. _I’ll tell her soon. Just… not yet._ He rolled on top of her and she wrapped her legs around his waist.

_I cannot lose her._

*

Regis walked into the crypt to find Dettlaff and Fjola composedly eating eggs and toast for breakfast, all of them trying with difficulty not to smirk.

“Morning, Regis,” Fjola said, trying to sound casual and offering him some breakfast.  
He greeted her with a small bow, refusing the food politely. “I already ate at Geralt’s this morning.”

Dettlaff turned to him slowly and raised an eyebrow.

“I’m sure Geralt was pleased to see you,” he said slowly. “And surprised.”

Regis tried to change the subject somewhat.

“Fjola, _I_ am quite pleasantly surprised you decided to spend the night. I apologize for not joining you, but, ah…” _Oh gods,_ he thought. _What a poor choice of words._ He heard Fjola snicker and blushed very deeply. “…Um, ah, where was I? Yes, I apologize for my… _absence,_ but…” _There’s no way to tiptoe around this,_ Regis thought, uncharacteristically awkward and blushing further.  
“So what did you and Geralt get to talk about?” Fjola interjected skillfully.  
“I’m glad you asked!” he burst with relief, flourishing his hands and dramatically stating, “I’ve decided to buy a cottage!”  
“Oh wow, congratulations!” Fjola said, genuinely happy for him. Dettlaff looked nearly murderous however.  
“And where is this cottage?” he asked darkly.  
“Not far from Corvo Bianco, actually. At least, not nearly as far as here,” he said, gesturing to the crypt. “It even has a nice cellar for my herbs and alchemy… and a nice cask or two of Geralt’s wine, if he’s feeling neighborly,” he laughed, winking. Dettlaff did not return his mirth.  
“I hope you enjoy it,” he said through clenched teeth.  
“Thank you,” Regis said, suddenly somber. “I intend to. And I’m sure Fjola wouldn’t mind the less strenuous walk in order to help me each day.”

At this, she looked up in glee.

“Really? _Every_ day?”  
“Of course!” he said. “Geralt is willing to let you work for me full-time. That is,” he implored humbly, “If you’re interested.”  
“Are you kidding, Regis? Of course I am!” Fjola leapt up and hugged him tightly, kicking her legs in delight. Regis held her back, watching Dettlaff stiffen and scowl. Fjola released him and straightened her shirt. “I’m so sick of picking grapes,” she moaned, returning to her seat beside Dettlaff, who immediately wrapped a protective arm around her and kissed her head. Regis diplomatically acted as though it wasn’t anything new and immediately went to start packing his things.  
“It’s a bit early, isn’t it?” Dettlaff asked, his voice almost accusatory. “Did you even finalize things? Or pay for it?”  
“Yes, well, seeing as how it’s technically going to be in Geralt’s name, which carries weight in Beauclair, I expect the process to be completed with much more haste than usual, and we should be able to move in within the week.”  
“A week?” Dettlaff snarled, standing up and clenching his fists. He stared up with fury at Regis, who was leaning over the railing with a somber face.

Fjola removed herself from the table awkwardly and grabbed her cloak.

“I’ll see you at Geralt’s,” she said, exiting quickly.

Dettlaff immediately began to prowl dangerously up to Regis, his shoulders squared and fangs elongating slightly, intimidating even to the older vampire.

“You are trying to take her from me!” he accused instantly, his face mere inches from Regis’ own.  
“I would do no such thing,” Regis reacted calmly. “I truly am thinking of her and you both.”

Dettlaff snarled and turned away, pacing. Regis was concerned – he had not seen his friend so agitated since _before_ he had started helping him. _Has he regressed?_

“Please, my friend. The winters here are harder than one would expect, as I’m sure you recall. The crypt is barely inhabitable by us, let alone a human. At the cottage, there will be better access to food, water, heat… and none of us will have to fight over a small, barely stable bed,” he said, gesturing to the shabby one in the corner. “We will be able to see her every day, as opposed to every two or three.”

Dettlaff seemed to be cooling down, considering, but still seemed emotional and angry. Regis pressed further.

“No more having her leave before sunset, or not arriving until almost noon. No more days needing to be spent without her. No more worrying about her long walk if we are not there to escort her.”

Dettlaff emitted a small growl again, to Regis’ surprise. He was almost _feral._ Regis decided to really hit home in the final part of his argument.

“No more needing to share her with Geralt,” he said. As Regis suspected, Dettlaff turned around quickly at this.  
“What do you mean?”  
“As I said, Geralt has given me leave to have her full-time, he barely needs her as it is. This would likely continue into spring, should Fjola be willing to stay, of course.”  
“She would quit Corvo Bianco?”  
“I suspect more that Geralt would either release her or just simply not rehire her after winter is over.”

Dettlaff moved closer to Regis, tilting his head questioningly. He wasn’t finished, he could tell. Regis smirked.

“Not to mention, there is a room with space enough for a rather large bed, and another one with room for mine… _separately.”_

That was it. Dettlaff finally relaxed and approached him, placing his forehead against his friend’s and squeezing his shoulders.

“Thank you, Regis,” he said. “I apologize.”

Regis closed his eyes, embracing his friend in return.

“I want you… _both_ of you… to be happy,” he said. “That is why I have done this.”

The two stood holding each other for a few moments until they broke apart and silently began to pack.

*  
  
A few days later, after the paperwork had been mercifully expedited thanks to Geralt’s ties with the Duchess and the bank, the Witcher watched Fjola and Regis walk down the road with her few effects, talking animatedly. He was escorting her with her hand in his elbow as usual, strolling casually as he leaned in close to tell her something. It must have been a joke or clever remark of some sort as she threw her head back and laughed, then hugged his arm to herself briefly. Geralt could see even from this distance that Regis was not taking his eyes off of her and looking, to put it in a very clichéd term, absolutely _smitten_.

_That’s going to be trouble,_ he thought grimly.


End file.
